NCIS: Apocalypse
by CSIGurlie07
Summary: An A/U fic in which the team is struggling to survive after a cataclysmic event. Rated M for dark content. COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

A/N: Okay. Here's the deal with this. While I was waiting for votes on the next chapter to come in, I was watching this show on TV which pretty much taught how to survive in various life or death situations. That particular episode was how to survive a skyjacking, but that's neither her nor there. Essentially, it fueled my imagination. What would happen if today's societal systems failed? Government rendered useless and/or nonexistant, resources fought over, etc. It was then I got the idea of WWGD? What Would Gibbs Do?

Now, I know I promised the completion of What If. I can still finish it, which at this point will most likely be a general casefic. But since I didn't get this idea until I had already posted the options, it didn't get a chance to get voted on. So this little preview of my new fic can either be its own story or the newest update to What If. You may be skeptical, but I can totally work it into the storyline I have already established. Oh trust me: it will work.

So it's up to you. This can be the newest Chapter to What If, or it be a preview to a completely different fic.

Let me know what you think about the concept! It's a little different from how I usually go about writing these. I do hope you enjoy it though! Bon Apetit!

* * *

The night was deathly still. A dark and vacant block sat on the outskirts of the city, abandoned but for a slew of abandoned newspapers, bottles, and cans littering the pavement. The smell of smoke and decay lingered heavily in the air, which was thick and sticky with the coming summer heat. A single fire-barrel, dull from burning for days, provided only the barest modicum of light, as opaque clouds covered the night sky. The long-dark streetlamps now served only as turf markers.

The weeks following the Incident had given rise to a hierarchy of gangs. Some gangs had existed before the Incident, but they had been challenged, and sometimes defeated, by newer coalitions of former office workers and civil servants. Territory was fought and killed over, as more territory meant greater access to resources. Intruders were dealt with severely, a result of intense loyalty and competition for precious resources. Turf boundaries were delineated by covering street lamps and telephone poles in spray paint, proudly putting their gang names and symbols on display for all to see. But despite the symbols on these lamps, this particular street was void of life.

The remnants of what had once been a Jeep Wrangler could be seen at the far end of the alley, charred and stripped clean of all minable parts. The frame rested directly on the pavement, as all four tires had been removed. The hood was hinged open, revealing a gaping hole where the engine and battery had once been. The gas was gone as well, siphoned off for other uses, leaving the tank as empty as the car's interior, which had been stripped of all its seats and carpeting.

Suddenly, the tranquility of the scene was broken by the appearance of a shadowed shape peeking around the corner of a building. After a moment of scanning the block for danger, it darted out into the open, quick as smoke. The Shadow moved with natural stealth, not making a sound as it crept down the street. It weaved around a fire-barrel, briefly illuminating the shape of a bulky sack slung over its shoulders. A moment later, a sudden clatter of shifting rubble sent the Shadow scurrying to the nearest source of cover—the scorched skeleton of the Jeep. Once there it froze, blending into the blackened silhouette in its attempt to avoid the potential threat.

A raggedy-coated cat trotted from beneath the offending rubble heap, and when only silence followed, it became clear that the feline had been the cause of the disruption. The Shadow paused only a moment more before leaving the Jeep behind as it crept along a diagonal, before finally darting into an even darker alleyway.

As soon as it was shielded by hollow dumpsters, the Shadow removed the bulky pack from its shoulders as four more dark forms detached from the wall and moved towards the sack, sliding closer to get a better look.

"How did we do?" came a male voice, not belonging to any of the curious onlookers, instead emanating from the dark side of a dumpster. The Shadow didn't flinch—it recognized the Voice, expected it.

"Consumables and toiletries only," the Shadow replied in a female, lightly accented voice. "Enough to last us another week at best. We'll need to make another run for Medicinals soon." Shadow opened her pack to reveal the night's loot. The ghostly forms around her immediately began to take inventory, listing each item before dividing the items into three separate sacks.

"Any Encounters?" the Voice inquired. The Voice was steady, calm. Only the keenest ear could detect the undercurrent of concern.

"None," came the reply. "Some activity six blocks west of here, but not the Vipers. Vagabonds, most likely. They found the Quik-Stop and Walmart on E Street— picked it clean."

"Armed?"

"Undetermined."

"Numbers?"

"Visual confirmation of seven: three male, four female. No identifiable leader."

"Who did we poach from this time?" the Voice asked, this time with a smile hidden in his tone. Possession of this Sector shifted weekly, making it something of a running joke to the Patrol. The Shadow paused for a moment before responding.

"Bloods."

Silence met her reply. The Packers froze where they stood, their eyes automatically shooting to where the Voice was located, beside a dumpster. All present knew the impact of that word, what it meant to their way of life.

"Where?" All amusement had abandoned the Voice, until the hard tone of a leader returned.

"Far end of the Sector. No sentries posted, just tags."

"Very well." A moment of silence followed. "Move out," came the command. At that, the frozen dark Packers resumed their motions, tucking away the last of the supplies without a sound. Cinching the sacks shut, the Packers slung the bags over their shoulders and moved towards the far end of the alleyway. Only the Shadow remained behind with the Voice.

"Are we going to have to relocate, Gibbs?" the Shadow asked softly. The Voice sighed and moved closer to her, leaving the cover of the dumpster.

"We may not have to."

"You said that the last time," the Shadow responded shortly. "We moved 20 miles two days later."

"I know that Ziver," the Voice said. "I was there too."

"We cannot keep moving around like this. We pick up more and more people each time we do, and now there are children to care for—"

"We'll talk about this later," the Voice interrupted. He motioned to the horizon. "The sun is coming. We need to get moving."

"You are right," the Shadow said, her voice sharp. The Voice knew that despite her short intontation, she was being anything but insubordinate. She silently slipped away to join the rest of the Patrol, who had already established Roadguards, ready to sound the alarm should an unidentified party approach. The Voice followed behind her, allowing her to take charge of the Patrol. When the Shadow spoke, her tone was firm and precise—the orders of a commander. "Back to Base."


	2. The Warehouse

A/N: Okay, here's the deal. For some reason, writing this story is more fun than writing the casefic. I know, you all hate me for starting and stopping the What If story, but please, I have really no control on what my muse spurs me to write. I know if I don't write this story down when I have the chance, it'll be lost to me forever! I'll try to update What If for real soon, but no guarantees.

Now this chapter is really long, so prepare yourself. It is a lot of descriptive detail, which may make it a tad difficult to get through, but I assure you that the next chapter (which has already been started) has a lot more dialogue and a lot more human interaction. This chapter is pretty much still setting the scene. This is definitely one of the more complex fics I've written.

Also, in the next couple chapters or so, keep an eye out for familiar faces! I'm having fun weaving this particularly dark and gloomy loom, in case you havent noticed.

Well, I think this will be my last update before the new season starts, so... Happy Watching! (I'm interested to see how they resolve the cliffie of the finale. Granted, I'd be more excited if they made ZIBBS canon rather than TIVA, but hey, that's why I'm not one of TPTB!)

Let me know how you like this chapter!

* * *

The Patrol began to move across the road to the next section of cover, staying in pairs and making 360-degree visual sweeps every couple of steps. It was a familiar routine, one enacted each time they went out beyond the Perimeter. The Patrol was well acquainted with the route back to the shipyard where the Base was located, and had mapped out multiple secondary routes should they Encounter trouble, as well as a rally point to use if they got separated. As soon as the buildings thinned out, they would fall into a wedge formation. It was safer; though each of the Patrollers had some sort of weapon, only two carried firearms. These two were posted at the front and right corners of the wedge, maximizing the use of their firepower. They served as scouts as well, allowing the Patrol to pass through the area more efficiently. Speed was of the essence now, more so than it had been on the way out. They now had supplies, which made them a target, and they had to be certain no one followed them back to the docks.

Their practiced vigilance paid off, however, and they traveled the six miles back to Base without encountering a single soul. The salty fragrance of the sea teased their senses as they approached the shipyard, a welcome relief from the city's dank stench of trash and human waste. The sky was just turning violet when the Patrol reached a dull, but sturdy, chain link fence. Beyond the fence were rows upon rows of metal shipping containers, leftover from the days before the Incident. Nestled in the midst of the sea of containers was a large Warehouse, most likely used as the main indoor staging facility for unloading and readying the containers' cargo for transport, back when the shipyard had still been operational. However, the shipping industry had virtually disappeared overnight, leaving the port and its facilities to the use of whoever happened upon it.

The Patrol halted in front of the fence, and the Voice stepped to the front before stretching his arms to the sky and crossing them once, twice, three times. Then his right fist came to rest over his heart. The show was not for the patrol's benefit; it was for the Angels—snipers posted out of sight on top of the stacks of shipping containers who were observing through their scopes. The motions were code, partly for identification, partly to convey that no followers had been detected on the way home. A moment later, a man approached the other side of the improvised gate—a section of gate detached on one side and secured by a length of chain and a padlock. A ring of keys jingled in his hand. Without a word, the padlock was unlocked and the chain removed. The sentry hoisted the loose section of fence and walked it sideways, allowing the patrol access to the shipyard. Had they attempted to enter without the Voice's motions and without the aid of a key, the Angels would have taken them all out, one by one, from 300 meters away.

As soon as the Patrol had passed through the gate, the fence was re-secured, and they immediately made their way into the Maze of shipping containers that lay between them and the Warehouse. And a Maze it was. Only one route led to their intended destination. Any deviation led to a seemingly endless number of dead ends. It was an added defense; with limited firepower, the shipping containers had been rearranged to confuse and deter any stranger who made it past the Perimeter.

First left, second right. One, two, three red containers, then another left. Continue straight until a right at the Globo-Ship logo. Such was the routine. Despite there being less need for stealth inside the Perimeter, the Patrol continued to travel in silence. They were all exhausted, the result of nine hours' worth of foraging after putting in twelve hours of work the day before. Nerves were also frayed; they had all learned months ago that the less conversation attempted in the after-hours of a Patrol, the less friction would develop between them. As they got closer to their destination, the sun continued to rise, turning the sky from a violet to a rosy pink. After one last right turn, they were out.

The tall structure of the Warehouse stood before them, stark and formidable amid the stacks of rusty crates. A smaller shack sat adjacent to the Warehouse—used to house what few weapons they had managed to acquire, with two Guards posted at all times to ensure they weren't stolen. Halfway to the roof of the Warehouse an expanse of windows began, streaked with years of dirt and grime. Without pause, the Patrol marched to the Warehouse door, each knowing the others were eager to set down their packs and get some sleep.

In the stillness of the maze, the sound of movement and voices from within could be clearly heard as they neared the structure. Like every dawn, the Residents of the Warehouse were already up and readying themselves for the day ahead. After going sunset to sunrise in silence, often without encountering any sign of life besides themselves, the Patrol was always glad to hear the sounds of life upon its return.

Passing through a heavy wooden door, the Patrol entered the Warehouse. They were immediately plunged into musty shadow as the faint rays of the newly risen sun disappeared, effectively blocked by the grime that covered the windows. To compensate, the murky interior was lit by a combination of flaming torches and electric lanterns. The result was enough to illuminate the cluttered space so that the Residents could go about their business.

The Warehouse was a single large room, an open space made claustrophobic by stacks of shipping containers standing in long rows. Some stood five or six containers high, creating an apartment-like arrangement. But despite the cramped conditions the Residents utilized, they still managed to create an atmosphere of trust and acceptance. The doors to each of the containers were open, leaving their interiors open to the public eye.

Each container had blankets or sleeping bags strewn across the floor—a few even had ragged mattresses. Overturned milk-crates served as small tables; some were home to candles, now extinguished, or small Coleman lanterns. Evidence of breakfast—opened cans and ripped cardboard boxes littered some milk-crates, whose owners had not yet collected the trash. Some Apartments held memories of life from before the Incident, in the form of ragged books or even worn photographs. Those lacking pictures had decorated the walls of their Apartments with their own form of artwork: graffiti. Colorful murals, landscapes, even simple abstract swirls of color lent the entire structure a feeling of optimism that contradicted the gloom of the cramped and dirty living conditions.

Recently, the Residents had seen the addition of several families to their numbers. Now five or six children ran in and among the Stacks, shrieking with amusement as they chased one another. The early hour seemed to have no effect on them, as they were just as energetic now as they would be twelve hours from now. The adults were slower to wake, instead talking in low voices to one another as they began to get moving for the day.

Eyes tracked the Patrol's movements as it moved towards the rear of the Warehouse to where the Storage Locker stood. It was well –removed from the Apartments: a rather effective way to prevent the theft of supplies. The Storage Locker was also the only container that had its doors closed and secured. It was flanked by a Guard on each side of the doors as well. Though none of the Residents showed any propensity for thievery, the Voice took no chances. With resources becoming increasingly scarce, they could not afford for food to mysteriously go missing. The rotation of Guards acted as a deterrent, and thus far had been effective in ensuring the protection of the Warehouse's supplies.

When the Guards standing watch spotted the Patrol, they quickly opened the doors to the storage locker. The Patrol quickly unloaded their packs, officially cataloguing them before putting them on the improvised shelves within the unit. Out of the corner of his eye, the Voice saw the Shadow remove two items from the packs and tuck them into her cargo pockets. Had it been anyone else, the Voice would have been suspicious of her actions, but the combination of years of trust and the fact that she had been the one foraging on her own the entire night allowed him to reason that she had a good reason for taking supplies for herself. As it was, she was walking a thin line, and though it was doubtful any Resident would call her out on it, the Voice would be hard put to justify her actions to the Residents should any protest be made.

As soon as the night's loot had been officially catalogued and stored, the doors were shut once more, and after the Voice was given a report—situation normal—the Patrol was given the cue to disperse. They immediately began drifting in different directions, each heading towards their respective Apartments. Only the Shadow remained behind, keeping her position next to the Voice.

Without a word they turned and headed towards the north end of the Warehouse, where there was a stretch of open space that was free of shipping units. Used only for Warehouse-wide Gatherings, the glossy cement now stood empty, leaving the way clear for the two. It was a familiar path, one taken often which culminated in regular Council meetings.

In the northwest corner of the warehouse, a door could be discerned; it led to a small office, once used by the shipping company's floor management. Shafts of light peeked from beneath the windowless door, alerting the Voice and the shadow to the presence of the rest of the Council.

The Voice lengthened his stride so that he reached the door to the office first—he pulled the door toward him and held it for the Shadow, earning him a wry smile and a roll of the eyes as she passed by. Such chivalry was all but dead in the widespread struggle to survive. Now it served the sole purpose of being a way for the Voice to see the Shadow smile. He slipped into the office behind her to see the Council formed and waiting.

A black-haired woman was the first to verbally acknowledge their arrival, quickly abandoning the game of dominos she had been engaged in to stand and clutch the Voice in a fierce hug.

"Gibbs, you're back," she exclaimed softly, tired relief etched across her features. After a moment, she pulled back just enough to peg him with an accusatory glare. "You're late."

"Cut a man some slack, Abs," he responded with a small grin. "We had to go out a bit farther than usual."

"Ooh! How did we do?"

"Fairly well," the Shadow cut in. She had pulled out the larger of the two items she had tucked into her pocket earlier, and now tossed towards the taller woman, who caught it deftly despite her surprise. Abby turned the box over in curiosity, and then clutched it to her chest as she realized what it was.

"Hair dye?!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with wonder and excitement. Ziva smirked triumphantly as she reached into her pocket to retrieve the second item she had hidden away, which was also tossed to the former forensic scientist. "Black lipstick!" Suddenly the Shadow was engulfed in a warm embrace, one which nearly knocked her over in Abby's enthusiasm. "Ziva, thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Gibbs watched the two women share their hug with a smile on his lips. He could barely contain his mirth when he saw Ziva mouth the words "I win" over Abby's shoulder, to which he raised his hands in concession.

It had become a competition, between the Voice and the Shadow, over the recent months. Surviving the Incident and its aftermath had caused changes in every Survivor, but to Gibbs, no change was more noticeable than the change that had occurred in Abby. Gone was Abby's perennially sunny nature, instead replaced by a more subdued persona. She still remained optimistic, but her excitement for life had ebbed, dampened by months of witnessing death and violence firsthand. Gibbs had seen similar changes in the younger Marines he once served with—the boys who had not been ready for combat. Abby now seemed out of place, having been forced to abandon her pristine lab to scrape by in a grimy shipping warehouse—and the Warehouse was one of the better shelters they had taken advantage of.

While Abby herself never admitted to feeling anything other than "fine", it pained Gibbs and Ziva both to see her in such a state. So they had taken it upon themselves to coax the old Abby out of her present shell. This included gifts, hugs, jokes, anything they could think of. And those rare moments, such as the one Ziva had earned just now, were so precious that Ziva and Gibbs competed for them. And Ziva had most definitely earned this one—Gibbs knew for a fact that none of the previous night's targets had carried such things as hair dye and black lipstick; which meant that Ziva had made an extra stop, possibly several, to procure such trivial items, putting her own safety at risk.

Gibbs had once thought that he would not take kindly to anyone who vied for Abby's attention; at least, not the kind of attention she generally reserved for him. But he found that he did not mind Ziva doing so. Not only did it challenge him to give Abby more attention on a regular basis, when otherwise he would easily lose sight of their unique relationship in the intricacies of running the Warehouse; it also allowed him to see the softer side of Ziva, an aspect of her nature that had come close to disappearing in the chaos of the Incident. Looking at the two of them now, it was difficult to remember how frosty their relationship had once been, when Ziva had first been assigned to NCIS. They had definitely grown closer, that much was certain. Abby enjoyed having a close female friend, and Ziva had become especially protective of the Goth.

"Report," Gibbs said to the man standing across the room from him, tossing a dirt-caked baseball up and down in one hand. The man ported disheveled hair and a short grizzled beard, a style common among the male Residents, as most usable blades were too valuable to waste on a daily shave. An old baseball jersey, courtesy of an Orioles fan, lay open to reveal a faded white wife beater. Well-worn jeans functioned well for this man, as his role in the Warehouse did not require any sort of extra pocket space that cargo pants, such as the ones that Gibbs wore, afforded.

"All quiet on the home front, Boss," Tony responded, pausing the ball-tossing momentarily. "As usual." As Chief of Security for the Warehouse, it was Dinozzo's responsibility to assign and supervise the Watch rotations. His men, Angels included, reported the night's activities to him, and he relayed the information to Gibbs.

"Good," Gibbs managed to reply before Abby cut in.

"Not good, Gibbs," she said, detaching herself from Ziva, who leaned her hips against a desk, crossing her arms as she settled in to listen. "Tony's lying!" Abby continued. "It was not 'all quiet'! It was loud, _really_ loud."

"Abs?"

"There were like, a hundred guys who were snoring last night. And none of them had the courtesy to shut their doors! And it's _all_ metal in there Gibbs… It _echoed_."

"It was five guys," another man piped up from his seated position on the floor, next to the abandoned domino game. The man wore a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a grimy t-shirt underneath. Firmly muscled arms seemed to clash with his boyish face—he had a beard also, but it was so fair that in the shadows of the warehouse he appeared to be clean-shaven. He carried about him an air of quiet intellect, a persona fitting for the Warehouse's Chief Technician—a title he shared with the woman he was currently contradicting. "And it was _not_ echoing, Boss," McGee added, giving Gibbs a meaningful look.

Gibbs bit back a grin. He knew exactly what had happened. Ever since the Incident, Abby had been without caffeine. Her symptoms of withdrawal at the time had been eclipsed by the struggle to stay alive, but as they had begun to find some degree of safety, it had been discovered that some symptoms still lingered, often manifesting in the Goth's sleeping habits. Despite often being fatigued, Abby found it difficult to fall asleep. Sometimes it would take hours for her to drift off, only to awake at the slightest disruption. Certain stressors aggravated her predicament, and having both Gibbs and Ziva outside the Perimeter was more than enough to warrant a difficult night. And when Abby was awake at night, even the softest noise would seem thunderous and grating. Once, in one of their past shelters, Abby had ripped McGee a new one for simply inhaling too many times in one minute.

"Abby," Gibbs said, careful not to incur her wrath by sounding too dismissive, "you know that now is not the time for this." Abby pouted, but Gibbs could tell that she was now more playful than angry. "You need to bring this up at the next scheduled Gathering." Gibbs knew that it would never be brought up at a Gathering. Oftentimes, Abby either forgot her irritation by the time the next one rolled around, or she had realized how trivial the whole thing was.

"New Guard schedule for both the Armory and the Storage Locker has been posted, Boss," Tony continued. "Rotation is good to go." The resumed tossing of his baseball indicated the end of his report. Gibbs nodded in approval before turning to the man standing next to Dinozzo, leaning against a battered filing cabinet.

The man was non-descript, with tangled sandy hair and murky brown eyes. He dressed shabbily, often throwing on whatever he could find, regardless of its condition. His beard was sparse, blotching his chin and jaw unevenly. The man also sported a pinched nose which, coupled with his dark watery eyes, gave Gibbs the impression of a rat. Gibbs did not like him personally, but the man was inexplicably charismatic. He was well-liked among the rest of the Residents, making him an ideal candidate for the post of Chief of Labor. It was his responsibility to assign work details within the Warehouse, and rotating the chore-like tasks on a regular basis, so that every Resident shared the experience of maintaining the Warehouse.

"New trash detail assigned," Mark reported, sending a wink in Ziva's direction. Perhaps that was why Gibbs was predisposed to disliking the man—Mark had yet to accept that Ziva was off-limits to the likes of him. It was common knowledge within the Warehouse that the Israeli was spoken for, but it didn't dissuade Mark in the slightest. As he spoke, Mark's eyes never left Ziva, as if he were reporting to her rather than Gibbs. To Ziva's credit, however, she barely spared him the effort of a fleeting glare before disregarding him entirely.

"We're going to start cracking open Ward 6 this week," Mark continued, referring to the field of shipping containers that had not been needed to build the maze. Instead they stood where they had been found, waiting for the crew of Residents to open their doors and catalogue whatever items they housed. "McGee?" Gibbs prompted, having received all the information he deemed necessary from Mark.

"Boss, we found some fiberoptics in one of the containers yesterday." The younger man's excitement was palpable. For the past few weeks, his pet project had been the reconstruction of an old computer and attempting to wire it into the internet somehow. Since the Incident, all internet access had essentially dried up, and McGee hoped that should he be successful, he would be able to contact someone who had not fallen victim to the Incident. "If we can—"

"No." Ziva's interruption was sharp. Gibbs glanced at her in surprise, only to find her expression as hard as her voice.

"But Ziva," McGee began to explain, "if we—"

"No, Tim," she cut him off once more. "No. You have been putting around with that thing for weeks—"

"Putzing," Dinozzo corrected. Almost immediately he shrank away from the scorching glare she sent in his direction.

"—and you have nothing to show for it except more false hopes," she continued as if Tony hadn't spoken. "You have wasted too much time on it already, when you should have been focusing on things that will actually help us survive."

"It's not wasted if we can get in contact with—"

"With who, McGee?" she interrupted again. Her voice had risen only slightly, but even that subtle difference told the rest of the Council exactly how much the whole thing bothered her. "Who exactly do you think you will be able to get in touch with?" She began to pace. "It should be obvious to everyone by now that no one is going to come to our rescue." She stopped and looked McGee in the eye. "Do you not think no one knows our situation? The entire world saw the Incident. They stood by and watched as the nation dissolved into chaos. They didn't step in to stop the Blockade, and they haven't attempted to stop the violence among the Survivors." She paused for a moment, before making a conscious effort to soften her voice. "They have left us for dead, McGee. It is time you accept the fact that the only people who are able to help us are the ones living in this Warehouse." McGee stared at her, either too startled or too scared to respond.

"Ziva's right, McGee," Gibbs said, his voice warm, but firm. "We don't have the luxury of waiting for help from beyond the Border. We're on our own. Move on to another project."

"Alright Boss," McGee replied dully, unable to disguise his disappointment. A moment of silence followed before Abby spoke.

"I've been thinking about our next project, actually," she said hesitantly. "Don't worry, it's definitely useful," she added quickly when Gibbs shifted his attention to her. When he continued to look at her expectantly, she continued. "I think we can work with the existing wiring in the Warehouse to create a renewable energy source."

"You mean like solar power?" Ziva asked, her tone now inquisitive. Abby nodded enthusiastically.

"Or wind-generated power. Even both, if we can get the necessary parts. If it works, we'd be able to recharge certain kinds of batteries, and if we can do that, then we'd be able to do a whole bunch of different things."

"Like what, Abby?" Tony asked.

"Indoor lighting for the Warehouse, for one thing. We could have long-distance communication if we could find some walkie-talkies." She looked at Gibbs. "Which means we wouldn't have to worry about the possibility of Patrols not coming back, because they would be able to be in constant contact with the Warehouse." Gibbs cocked an eyebrow in her direction. "If we were _really_ successful, like, _really really_ successful, we could even reconfigure a car or a motorcycle or something to run off batteries alone. Easier transportation and greater ability to gather more supplies at one time, so we wouldn't even have to Patrol and Forage so often." A moment of silence passed as the others stared at her in slight disbelief.

"Do you really think you could do that, Abby?" Ziva asked, her voice full of quiet awe. After so many months of having no other choice but to travel on foot, the luxury of a motorized vehicle seemed far-fetched.

"I think so," Abby replied. "It's definitely feasible. The only reason the cars don't work now is because there's no gas. Or, they're completely destroyed by Rovers and such. But yeah, they had solar-powered cars even before the incident. They just never caught on because either they weren't practical or too expensive or not pretty enough. But me and McGee, I think we could figure it out."

"Yeah," McGee said, his excitement growing again as his brain shifted into high gear. "It's definitely possible. It'll probably be the last thing we try to put together though. I think we could even find a way to get a cycle of generators working. It's bound to get hot in here during the summer, so maybe we could Forage some floor fans from some residences…" He looked at Gibbs. "I think it is definitely possible."

"Do it," Gibbs said.

"I was really hoping you'd say that Gibbs, because I've already begun working on it." She grinned at the shocked faces staring at her. "Not anything huge… Just something to recharge a couple of AA batteries, to see if it was possible. And I've been poking around the Warehouse's electrical system. It's in pretty good condition."

"Functional?"

"I'll know by this evening."

"Keep me updated," Gibbs ordered. Abby responded with a sloppy salute.

"Yes, sir," she said.

"Don't call me sir," Gibbs replied before turning to the two men who had thus far remained silent. The younger of the two men had an unruly mop of brown curls, which were accompanied by a sparse beard along his jaw line. Eyeglasses perched on his narrow nose which, accompanied by a thin frame slimmed further by the hunger experienced by all Residents, created a deceptively timid persona.

The older man, much shorter than the younger, sported an air of sophistication, despite the ragged state of his attire. A checkered polo was worn with the top button unfastened, and short sleeves revealed tan skin slack with age. He had graceful hands, steady from years of careful work as a doctor. Kind eyes exuded warmth, a stark contrast to the haggard expression common among all Survivors.

"Ducky,"Gibbs said, speaking to the older man, "status?"

"Mr. Palmer and I are in desperate need of supplies," the gentleman replied, motioning to himself and his younger colleague. 'We are down to ibuprofen tablets and adhesive bandages, which I am afraid will only be enough for a scraped elbow or two. We are grossly underprepared for any kind of injurious incident." Ducky paused. "I don't suppose you managed to pick up some medication last night on patrol, did you?"

"No," Ziva responded. Though the question had been directed at Gibbs, she had been the one to Forage all of the supplies on Patrol, giving her a more accurate knowledge of what had been acquired. "Medical supplies in the Vector have been Foraged already. Short of going house to house and raiding medicine cabinets, there are no medical supplies in any of the adjacent Vectors."

"Well, what about the Vectors surrounding the adjacent Vectors?" Ducky asked. "I hate to be persistent, but you cannot expect us to do much for the ill or injured on the meager resources we currently have at our disposal."

"You know, Doctor," Palmer said, speaking for the first time since the Council was in session, "Mercy Hospital isn't too far from Vector Nine. They may have left supplies behind when they evacuated."

"Yes," Ducky responded, instantly warming to the idea. He turned to Gibbs. "You were just out that way last night, Jethro, but if you don't mind a little familiar scenery, there is a good chance that the hospital staff will have more than enough supplies to last us for months!" Gibbs and Ziva shared a wary look, one that was not missed by the Englishman. "What is it?" he asked. After a moment's hesitation, Ziva responded.

"The far end of Vector Nine has been tagged by a new gang," she said.

"Well, that's nothing new," McGee said before the Israeli could continue.

"Yeah, who is it this week?" Tony chimed in. "Sharks? Jets? Deadly Fish?"

"Bloods," Gibbs said bluntly. As he surveyed the rest of the Council, he saw he color drain from their faces as the implications sank in, save for Mark, whom Gibbs suspected was too new to the area to know of the Black Blood Gang. Tony ceased all movement, the baseball falling to his palm with a light smack.

"Oh," Dinozzo said, at a loss for anything better to say.

"Dear Lord," ducky breathed. Abby's eyes were glued to Gibbs, wide with fear.

"Bloods?" Mark asked gingerly, aware of the shift in ambiance. "What--?"

"An extremely dangerous and violent gang," Ziva answered, not bothering to make him finish his question. Gibbs knew that this was only the most basic of descriptions Ziva could have given. She, and any other Council member, knew exactly just how horrific the Bloods were.

The Black Blood Gang consisted mostly of former military personnel, those who had been abandoned when the Blockade had isolated the East Coast from the rest of the country. The moment the quarantine began, soldiers and sailors alike had used all of their knowledge and training to become top dogs, and soon they had acquired an extensive arsenal of weapons. They adopted combat mindsets, and had no qualms about killing to further their advantage. Within weeks they had earned a reputation for unnecessary violence, having developed a thirst for blood that could never be quenched. They murdered anyone they Encountered, using whatever weapons they had at their disposal, even using their bare hands if needed.

Their military training made them formidable opponents, and with their weapons and numbers, many surviving gangs knew to clear out if Bloods were in the area. Gibbs and his group were no exception; it had been a mere six months since their last Encounter. At the time, they had been using sewer tunnels as shelter. The Bloods had hunted them, tracking them from the surface. Their approach had been to stealthy that Gibbs had only managed to evacuate half the Group before the Bloods reached the camps. They immediately set the place aflame, the tents and blankets quickly catching fire. They had then proceeded to slaughter the remaining Survivors as they scattered, trying desperately to seek refuge from the onslaught. The screams of the dying, and the women the Bloods had let live long enough to be ravaged, haunted Gibbs' consciousness, and he doubted that he was the only Resident who heard them.

No, he knew for a fact that he was not the only one still affected by that night. Ziva had been close enough to see the fire start. She, as his second-in-command, had been attempting to guide Survivors from the camp to where Gibbs was waiting along the escape route when the Bloods had struck from the far side of the camp. She had attempted to run through the blaze to save those trapped on the other side, but Tony—bless his heart—had had the presence of mind to forcibly pull her away. But he was not quick enough to keep her from witnessing a man not three arm's lengths away fall victim to a Blood's improvised machete. It was possible that Ziva had witnessed worse in her days as a Mossad operative, but Gibbs had spent more than one night since soothing her after she had a nightmare of the event. Assuring her that nothing could have been done to save those people, that it was better that she had not gotten close enough to fight that machete-wielding knife, had done nothing to assuage her guilt, and he had soon stopped murmuring such words. Instead he simply held her close, and waited for the sun to come up.

After that night, any consequent possibility of running into the Bloods again was avoided, often in the form of quickly vacating the area and abandoning whatever shelter they were using at the time. Any talk of fighting against the Bloods were immediately quashed; the Bloods were too numerous, too well-trained, and too well-armed to resist. The only tried and true way to survive the Bloods was to avoid Encountering them at all costs.

"We've fought rival gangs before," Mark said naively. Tony scoffed mirthlessly.

"Yeah ok," the Italian said. "Let me know how that works out for yah. Oh, wait a minute! You won't be able to because you'll be dead! Kaput!"

"Dinozzo!" Gibbs barked. The younger man immediately snapped out of his growing hysteria.

"Sorry, boss," he responded, looking only mildly chagrined. Gibbs understood his anxiety; Tony was only one of many Residents to have lost close friends to the Bloods. It was finally Ziva who took pity on Mark's ignorance.

"The Bloods are not like the other gangs," she stated. "They are killers, murderers. They kill for the thrill of the hunt, for the taste of blood. They hunt other Survivors and cut them down like animals. We do not have the manpower or resources to fight them." She looked Mark straight in the eye to drive her point home. "If we Encounter the Bloods at any time, they will slaughter us, and we would be lucky if they did it quickly." By this point, Mark had acquired the same pallor as the rest of the Council.

"Got it," he managed to squeak out.

"No, you don't," Ziva contradicted. "And you should pray that you never have to."

"Gibbs," Abby said, her voice barely more than a plaintive whisper. "Are we moving? Again?" At this, the rest of the Council looked to Gibbs for his response. He knew that they were conflicted in what they hoped his answer to be.

Of all the shelters that had claimed over the past months, the Warehouse had become the most permanent. Its layout was ideal for a group as large as theirs, and its inherent protection allowed the Residents to settle and establish some semblance of a functioning society. The majority of the Residents no longer had to scurry about in the shadows to scrounge for food, the only exceptions being those that went beyond the Perimeter on Patrol. The stability of their current environment allowed them to feel human again, and they didn't want to give it up. At the same time, they were all too aware of the potential consequences of remaining so close to Bloods.

"They have only tagged the far end of Vector Nine," Ziva said, shooting a glance at Gibbs. He knew the meaning of the glance. She was buying him time to come to a decision without having the pressure of the Council's attention on him. "We do not tag either, so there is no reason to suspect they know we are here. They may not come any closer than they already have."

"Yeah, that might actually fly if you believed it yourself, Zee-vah," Tony said brazenly.

"We are more organized than we were six months ago," she continued. "We have better round-the-clock security measures and multiple escape routes." Gibbs quickly saw where she was going.

"We stay," Gibbs said, regaining the room's focus.

"Gibbs—" Abby stopped there. She knew she should protest, but couldn't deny the relief she felt at his decision.

"For now," Gibbs continued. "We stay, we watch. The Bloods come any closer, _then _we leave."

"I don't know if the Residents are going to go for that, Boss," McGee said softly.

"We didn't force them to follow us, McGee, and we're not going to start now. We tell them about the situation and what we plan to do. They want to leave, they can do so whenever they like."

"Gathering in ten, Gibbs?" Ziva asked. Gibbs nodded. She left the room swiftly, intent on spreading the word.

"You all don't have to stay either," Gibbs said to the others as the door shut behind her. His words were first met with shock, then indignation. Abby gave him a sharp smack to the midsection, which he received with an arched eyebrow.

"Gibbs!" she growled menacingly. "How dare you!" She glared at him. "When have we ever given you _any_ reason to think we would want to leave you?"

"Yeah, Boss," Tony joined in. "Following the leader is what we do best." He paused. "Plus, there's no way Ziva is leaving without you. And without either of you to watch our backs out there beyond the Perimeter, well… We'd be signing our own death warrants." A moment of appreciative silence followed his words, accompanied by agreeable nods. Then the office door opened, and Ziva leaned against the door frame.

"Gibbs, they've Gathered."


	3. The Gathering

"Gibbs," Ziva said, sticking her head back into the office. "They've Gathered."

Gibbs nodded in acknowledgement, pushing himself away from the desk he had been leaning against. He left the office, with the rest of the Council trailing dutifully behind. The Gathering was immediately visible upon exiting the room, and as soon as Gibbs came into view, the idle chatter died off, leaving the Warehouse in respectful silence. The Residents had all gathered in the traditional semicircle, leaving room for the entire Council to stand between the Gathering and the warehouse bulkhead.

Gibbs stopped in the center of the horseshoe and faced the Gathering. The others fell into their places behind him; the placement of each Council member had been carefully determined months ago. Ziva was nearest to Gibbs, half a step behind and a foot to his left. In the weeks following the Incident, Ziva's training and knowledge had proven invaluable, and Gibbs had often gone to her for advice. This had inevitably cast Ziva in the role of second in command. His trust in her had bolstered the trust the Residents had in her, despite her sometimes cold-hearted demeanor. She was quick on her feet, and made sound decisions even when under pressure. More than that, she was confident in herself and her abilities, a confidence that the Residents came to share. She was honest, almost brutally so, and many Residents appreciated her candor. They had all been through too much to appreciate any kind of sugar-coated sit-reps. So Ziva had become the frontline of the command. If information needed to be passed on to Gibbs, it was often given to Ziva first, who would then either handle the situation herself or pass the news on to the Voice. She was respected and liked by the majority of the Residents, solidifying her status among the ranks.

Tony stood three paces back to Gibbs' right. As head of security, it was important for Dinozzo to be trusted as well. His position in relation to Gibbs reinforced his position as a major figure in keeping the warehouse safe. Tony was well-liked in his own right, but his slight immaturity—which even the Incident and its aftermath had been unable to completely eradicate—put him at a slight disadvantage, particularly among some of the male Residents, and left him somewhat less respected than Ziva's militaristic practicality. But his input played a large role in Warehouse policy, and he had a great deal of responsibility as a result. He handled his duties with stolid determination, and though he often utilized a wry tone, he was tough on his men when it was necessary.

Farther behind Gibbs, and to either side, the others fanned out. Mark stood between Gibbs and Tony, but about three feet behind them. Because of Mark's responsibility of delegating the less-enjoyable chores among the Residents, his location in relation to Gibbs subtly communicated the Voice's support of Mark's decisions. Gibbs' silent reinforcement dissuaded petty insubordination for the most part, making the labor aspect of Warehouse life more harmonious. The Residents accepted their tasks without complaint, knowing it would only be a week or so until another rotation gave the chore to the next Resident in line.

Tim, Abby, Ducky, and Palmer were all on equal footing in the formation in terms of tasks. Abby and McGee were more removed from the Residents, as they tended to work more with machines than with people. Though their role was crucial, and improved their quality of life, only a few Residents were able to keep up with the chiefs of technology intellectually. Many times they could be found chattering about how to create a device that would ease Warehouse life, or design a better way of doing something. They worked on their own frequency, and it was difficult for others to quite understand what they were discussing. On a personal level, however, they each had their own well-liked characteristics.

Abby, though much changed since the Incident, still possessed a captivating personality. Though some people didn't know what to make of the feisty scientist, they found it impossible to not enjoy her company. She retained the slightest bubbling aspect of her life as a forensic scientist, and it was enough to take other Residents aback when they first met her. They were inexplicably drawn to her, and as a result, Abby was never found wanting for company.

On the other hand, McGee, while not disliked, was not quite so popular. He was respectful and even chivalrous towards the ladies, which endeared him to them, but the other men failed to take him seriously. It had bothered him a great deal in the first few instances, but had since grown accustomed to it. His hurt was also eased by his popularity with the Residents' younger demographic.

The children living in the Warehouse adored McGee. Not only was he willing to take the time to join them for the occasional game, he also had a seemingly depthless well of creative stories within him. His gift for writing crime novels made him the single most popular Resident come bedtime, when the children would clamor for him to tell them a story. Unless asked for a retelling of a favorite, each night warranted a new story. One night could be a classic tale of a knight rescuing a princess from the clutches of a dragon, the next night a modern story where the damsel in distress was revealed to be a villainess. The possibilities were endless, and the children loved him for it.

Ducky was also respected in his own right, but did not experience the devotion that Gibbs and Ziva both earned. No, the medical examiner-turned-primary care physician was respected for his wealth of trivial knowledge and insightful advice. While relatively hopeless in the field of security, he had the uncanny knack for knowing what people wanted, and needed, to hear. In a time where personal relationships were strained to the point of fracture and human behavior was often reduced to its most primitive, Ducky's soothing insight into the human psyche was invaluable. His expertise in the field of medicine was icing on the cake—his care and treatment of minor injuries saved lives in a world where infection ran rampant and the body was weakened by fatigue and hunger. The doctor's warm touch was much appreciated in the Warehouse, and a polite respect was given to the Scotsman.

Of the entire Council, Palmer was the least powerful of the leaders. While he proved helpful to Ducky, the former med-student still lacked proficient social skills. Improper jokes at inopportune moments caused people to keep their distance, and Palmer did not bother to try curbing his comments. His apathy had come about after the Incident, after many weeks of depression. Gibbs and the others knew the source of his pain, and let him be for the most part, continuing to behave as normally as possible around him.

Gibbs and Ziva both understood Palmer particularly well—they too had experienced the death of a loved one. And the entire team felt the loss of Michelle Lee, especially since they had all witnessed her murder. Ziva had helped pull Palmer out of a severe depression, at least to the point where he could function without needing constant prodding from Ducky and Abby. Now he pulled his own weight, becoming Ducky's right hand, and treating patients on his own if Ducky was busy or otherwise engaged. He had proven himself highly capable, and more than proficient. But he stood the farthest from Gibbs, along the peripheral. It was appropriate, as Palmer held the least amount of power within the Council, and within the Warehouse.

Gibbs himself was centered in front of the Gathering. As more and more people had begun to join their roving band, it was impossible for the newcomers to mistake Gibbs as anything other than the Group's leader. His calm collectedness in the aftermath of the Incident had become the team's rock, and all who came across their band of travelers picked up on it. He was respected for his professional demeanor, though at times it made the Residents find it difficult to relate to him. However, it was his blatant concern for each and every Resident that earned their undying loyalty. He was honest and fair, remaining objective and logical in even the most trying of times. His military experience bolstered their confidence in his ability to keep them safe, and it was a responsibility he took very seriously. In return, they honored his judgment, choosing to follow him, knowing that they could leave at any time if they so chose.

As Gibbs stood before them now, there was no doubt in his mind how he would go about telling them about the latest development. In the past, he had only ever treated them as other Survivors. There was never any beating around the bush, as doing so could potentially be the difference between life and death. There was also no sugar-coating; in the post-Incident world, such frosting of facts was considered insulting, as every Survivor knew exactly how dire nearly every situation they found themselves in was.

"Evidence has been found that indicates that Bloods have come as close as the far edge of Vector 9," Gibbs said, not bothering to waste time on pleasantries. His declaration was met with several fearful gasps, and absolute stillness as even the children froze in shock. After a few seemingly endless moments, a man in front finally spoke up.

"What the hell do you mean, you found evidence?" he shouted. His voice was laden with anger, but Gibbs could hear the undercurrent of fear lacing his words. But the panic was contagious, and almost immediately the Gathering dissolved into a mess of angry and fearful shouting. Gibbs took a deep breath in an attempt to reinforce his patience. Every so often he had to remind himself that not everyone responded to danger as calmly as his team did.

He sent a sidelong glance towards Ziva, who was watching the escalating chaos with keen eyes. Her entire body was on edge, made tense by the thunderous echoing and sharp movements of the Residents. After a long night of Patrolling, it was no wonder that her hand was gripping the hilt of the knife sheathed at her belt. When she finally made eye contact with Gibbs, his pointed glare was more than enough of a cue for her to act. Without hesitation, her eyes still burning with irritation, she put her thumb and forefinger between her lips and gave a shrill, ear-splitting whistle. The chaos immediately fell silent.

"_Sheket Bevakasha_!" she shouted, her voice echoing in the newly created silence. Her words were foreign, but her intent was unmistakable by even the newest of Residents. Her sharp eyes scanned the Gathering, daring them to disobey her. When no one did, she continued. "Perhaps if you all remained calm, instead of acting like ducks with your heads cut off, you would be able to have your questions answered!" When the majority of the Gathering acted sheepish, Ziva stepped back, clearing the floor for the Voice to speak.

"What I mean by evidence," Gibbs continued, "is that they have tagged part of the far boundary of Vector 9. We have not actually seen any, and we don't know if they are still in the area."

"But they could be!" a woman called out. Her name was Julie, Gibbs was called, and a mother of two whose husband had died before Julie had begun to travel with Gibbs and his team.

"Yeah," Gibbs agreed. "They could be. Hell, they probably are." He paused, carefully surveying the Gathering. A murmur of fear and dread greeted him, and he knew that his next announcement was going to turn the congregation of Residents into another cluster. "And we're staying here," he declared.

Almost immediately, the uproar began again. However, this time Ziva simply took a step forward, coming even with Gibbs. Just as quickly as the furor had started it died away as the Residents noticed her movements and recognized the menace behind the silent movement. Gibbs kept the grin tickling his lips at bay: they might like Ziva, but they had the common sense to know that it was detrimental to your health to cross her.

"We don't know for sure that they are in the area," Gibbs repeated, taking advantage of the resulting quiet. "We have more people with us than we ever did in the past. We have stable Shelter here, as well as Resources. To move now would be dangerous, possibly more dangerous than staying put. We need more information before we can justify moving the entire Group again." He took a quick breath, but continued on before the crowd could protest. "This is not an order to anyone," he said. "No one is being forced to stay here. You can leave if you want to, but if you do so now, you will be doing it on your own. We can send you with some rations and help you find a preliminary route away from the docks, but that's it. After that, you're on your own." He scanned the Gathering. "You don't have to decide now. We have a few days before we will know more. Take some time. Think it over."

"What happens if we do stay, and the Bloods come closer?" a girl in her early twenties asked. Her question was the most logical one yet, and lacked the hint of panic everyone else seemed to possess. Gibbs took note of her calm demeanor and filed the knowledge away for later use; she would prove useful in the future.

"If it comes to that," Gibbs replied, "we will re-evaluate." With that, Gibbs turned and moved to leave the Circle. Murmurs of concern and confusion followed his steps, but Gibbs could not stay to listen to them. If he did, then his authority would be undermined, questioned. He didn't want to prevent the dissention, as they had every reason to disagree with him, but he could not be a part of it while maintaining his credibility as a leader. Instead, Ziva stepped in yet again.

"We know that this is a huge development," she called above the crowd, "and we know that you have many questions. But you have all the information we have at this time. You must make your decisions on your own, but know that the Council will continue to reside in the Warehouse until further notice." And then she too was leaving the Gathering. As soon as she had departed, the rest of the Council also dispersed. No one tried to stop them—all of the Residents were instead debating softly amongst themselves.

Gibbs paused at the door to the Office, allowing Ziva to catch up with him. Neither intended to enter the Office, but the door was removed enough from the Gathering area for the two to share a few words without any of the Residents overhearing. However, Ducky also joined them before either had a chance to speak.

"What do you need, Duck?" Gibbs asked. Ziva rested languidly against the doorframe, one foot propped against the metal as she too listened intently to what the Doctor had to say.

"Well," the Scotsman said, "I was wondering if this latest development will be a problem in regards to our current medicinal shortage."

"Well, yeah, Duck," Gibbs said. "Going to Mercy Hospital will take us past Vector 9, and, if our assumptions our accurate, right into Blood territory. That's exactly what we're trying to avoid."

"I disagree," Ziva chimed in. After a skeptical glance from Gibbs, she continued. "Not with the threat of danger, that much is true. But it does not change the fact that we need medicinal supplies, especially if there is a risk of Encountering Bloods. We will need more than a few aspirin and band-aids." She straightened gracefully, pushing away from the wall. "I will go," she declared.

"No," Gibbs said forcefully. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?" she asked. "I know the area as well as anyone else, and you know that I am the best Forager in the Warehouse. Plus, if a deviation from plans is necessary, I am the one best to handle it."

"The answer is no, Ziva," came the firm reply, leaving no room for argument. The Voice was speaking now. "It is too dangerous, and no one goes near Vector 9 until I say so. Understood?" Ziva eyed him, as if debating whether or not to challenge him again.

"Perfectly," the Shadow said finally. Her sharp gaze told Gibbs that she fully intended to debate the matter more thoroughly later, despite her verbal acquiescence.

"We can re-evaluate when we know more," he ceded. He shifted his gaze to Ducky. "Anything else?" he asked his old friend.

"No," Ducky said, giving a resigned sigh. "Nothing else." Gibbs nodded in acknowledgement before motioning to Tony, who had also joined the growing group.

"You know what to do," Gibbs said to his former senior field agent. And Tony did know; it was common routine for Patrollers to get some sleep upon their return in the morning. Until Gibbs and Ziva woke later in the day, Tony would assume control of the Warehouse and the Residents.

"Of course Boss," Tony replied. "No need to worry about a thing." Gibbs turned back to Ziva.

"You ready?" he asked, holding out his hand to her. As a response, she stepped closer to him, bypassing his hand to press against his side. His arm lowered behind her, his hand coming to a rest on her hip. The touch was familiar, a casual intimacy that was only shared within the Perimeter—outside the Perimeter, it was all business between the Voice and the Shadow. As it was, the gentle touches they shared in the Warehouse were such a stark contrast to the tough personas they exuded that each and every Resident who came into contact with them had done a double-take when they first catch sight of the personal contact between the two.

Together, Ziva and Gibbs began to make their way back into the stacks. After a full night of Patrol, they always returned ready to get some rest. While there had been times when they had been forced to remain awake until the following sunset, they were not too proud to admit they preferred not to. Patrol was demanding both physically and emotionally, as a state of constant situational awareness was necessary to ensure both the safety of the Patrol and the success of the mission. But with the Residents being familiar with what needed to be done, both Ziva and Gibbs were comfortable with leaving the Warehouse in Tony's hands while they got some sleep.

They were almost to their apartment when a Resident called out to Gibbs. With a permissive nod from Ziva, Gibbs left her side to go and speak quietly with the man in question. Ziva remained where she was, not caring that their Apartment was only 20 feet away and was easily accessible on her own. Until they got back to their Apartment, she was still his second-in-command, and it would not sit well with her if she got to rest while the Voice was still tending to the Residents. When Ziva felt her eyelids grow heavy, she let them drift shut. Standing as she was, she knew she wouldn't fall asleep, and she trusted her instincts to send her into an alert wakefulness at the slightest potential threat. It was a unique ability, the result of her Mossad training. It was important to rest whenever possible, even when it was not a proper sleep. Her skills were tested almost immediately when the sound of someone's approach sent her hand to the hilt of her belt-knife and her eyes flying open.

"Ziva!" McGee called from a good ten feet away. He waited for his voice to register before he stepped closer. When she recognized his voice, Ziva removed her grip from the knife.

"Yes McGee?" she asked, her voice strong despite her obvious exhaustion.

"Uhm," McGee said, stepping close enough for her to hear the hushed tone he used. He swallowed self-consciously, licking his lips as he struggled to find the proper words. "Look," he continued, taking the plunge, "about the Council meeting—"

"McGee," Ziva interrupted, "I hate that I had to raise my voice at you, but I could not allow you to waste time with that computer, not when there are so many other things we need."

"No, no," McGee said, "you were right." He shifted nervously, but his voice was clear, honest. "I should have realized it myself, but I thought—I just thought—"

"I understand, Tim," Ziva told him. He looked at her in surprise. "You have always found answers in computers. It is difficult to let go of what we are familiar with. But we have to look at the bigger picture."

"I know that," came the reply. "I just wish I had remembered that on my own." Ziva gave him a tired smile.

"Stop beating yourself up about it. Just apply the same enthusiasm you had for the computer to Abby's new project, and we will call it even, ok?" McGee responded with a half-hearted grin.

"Deal," he affirmed. His hands tucked themselves into his pants pockets, relaxing his posture slightly. "You know, I really think the electricity thing can change the way things work around here."

"I agree," Ziva replied. "And it seems she's almost finished with the prototype."

"I know. I wonder why she didn't tell me about it earlier."

"Only Abby can answer that," Gibbs interjected as he approached, having finished his conversation with the Resident. "But she always has her reasons."

"Yeah, she does, boss." A moment of silence followed as McGee waited for Gibbs or Ziva to say something more. When they looked at him expectantly, he realized that they had no intention of doing so. "Well," he said quickly, "I'm going to go see if she needs my help now." He began to back away. "Uhm, sleep well, boss, uh, Ziva…" He turned away, a slight blush creeping across his features as he departed.

"McGee!" Ziva called, trotting over to him when he paused. She stepped in close to him. "I am not upset about the Meeting," she said in a hushed tone. "Do not let it upset you." She looked him in the eye. "Put it behind you." After a moment, McGee relaxed, and nodded. A small smile quirked Ziva's lips as she reached up to pat his cheek affectionately. "Atta boy," she said. McGee returned her grin.

"Yeah, yeah," he said drolly. "Go get some sleep. Don't want to keep the Bossman waiting." Had it been any other Resident referring to Gibbs in such a manner, they would have found themselves facing the business end of a knife, but McGee was special, as was the rest of Team Gibbs. Their loyalty to Gibbs was unwavering and unquestionable. Such familiarity was their own brand of respect, whereas an ordinary Resident would have been insubordinate to use such a nickname. As it was, Ziva merely smirked as she turned away and returned to where Gibbs stood waiting.

As soon as she was within reach, Gibbs' arm was once more wrapped around her, pulling her close as they matched strides. They turned the corner, and were immediately greeted with the welcome sight of their Apartment.

It was a bottom container, situated directly on the concrete beneath three other containers. With the doors open, the interior could be clearly seen by passersby. It was plainer than most, with no murals painted on the walls and no personal pictures or books on display. There was no mattress—Abby had once tried to pamper them with large floor pillows pilfered from one exceedingly eclectic home in Vector 7, but as more Residents came to the Warehouse, the pillows had been donated to the newcomers.

Part of it had been Gibbs' Marine Corps training—the leader always made sure his men were provided for first before thinking of his own needs. Another reason for the donation of the pillows was the fact that more often than not, Gibbs woke up with stiff joints and tight muscles from the uneven support that left him miserable the entire day. Ziva too had expressed discomfort from the pillows' plush torture.

Now their bed consisted of a pile of weathered cardboard and thin, ragged blankets. They both knew they would have to make certain changes come fall, but at the moment, just at the start of summer, it worked well for them. The old cardboard provided a more even surface for Gibb's joints, and Ziva often ended up using Gibbs as a pillow, so it was comfortable enough to sleep on. And the blankets were just enough to ward off the nightly summer chill. Come winter, though, it would be too cold in the steel compartment to get by with scraps of cardboard and threadbare blankets.

They stepped into the apartment, leaving the doors open behind them, and immediately began to get ready to sleep. The process was simple, as they both slept in their clothes. The only thing they removed was their boots, which they left loosely laced, ready for a quick donning should the need arise. Habit had made them so adept at putting their boots on in the morning that it took them less than thirty seconds to pull them on and fasten the laces. Tonight, though, they took their time loosening the laces and removing their footwear.

"We are going to need those medical supplies, Jethro," Ziva started, sitting with her ankle propped on her knee as her fingers went to work on the laces of her right boot.

"Not now, Ziver," Gibbs sighed.

"Then when? We need to send a Patrol out as soon as possible, and how will we get one out this evening if I do not convince you now?" A firm tug, and her right foot was freed.

"'Did you not hear me at the Gathering?" Gibbs asked in exasperation. "I said the meds run was going to have to wait. It is too dangerous to send one out now, with the Bloods so close."

"And what happens if the Bloods come closer? We Encounter them and then what? Those who do not die in the struggle crawl back to the warehouse simply to die of their wounds? Wounds that could have been treated? To die of blood loss or infection days later?" She shook her head as she pulled at her left boot. "I am not okay with that Jethro."

"And I am not okay with sending you or anyone else outside Vector 9. What happens when the Patrol never comes back? The Residents will panic and scatter, and they'd be easy pickings for the Bloods and whatever gang happens to be in the area."

"Jethro, this could be our last chance to get to Mercy Hospital before the Bloods settle in. Even if they don't settle here, they could find the hospital before we get there and pick it clean. We would be without medical supplies indefinitely." Ziva stood and crossed to where Gibbs was leaning against the bulkhead.

"Well, that's a risk we'll have to take," Gibbs replied unwaveringly, "because you are not taking a Patrol out there."

"_I_ am not taking a Patrol out?" Ziva asked incredulously. "Is that what this is about?"

"You did say you were the one who would be leading the Patrol."

"Of course I am! No one else is qualified to do so. This mission is too important to leave to anyone else."

"I agree. And _you_ are too important to risk on such a mission."

"You do know I have been on worse missions, yes?"

"Maybe. Don't care."

"Apparently you do.'

"You aren't changing my mind."

"And you have not convinced me."

"Well I guess we're at a stalemate."

"Guess so."

They shared a long, tense look, each watching for the slightest sign of uncertainty in the other. When nothing presented itself, Gibbs abruptly broke the silence.

"Truce until we get some sleep?" His breath tickled her ear, his lips a fraction of an inch away. As soon as his words had been spoken he pulled away. Ziva turned her head and gracefully captured his lips with hers as the passed. She moved with him for a moment, then pulled back.

"Truce," she declared. She smirked, and Gibbs gave a cheeky grin as he pulled her towards the bed.

"It's a good thing we didn't have a full on fight," he said, reclining against the cardboard. "I don't think I have the energy to take full advantage of the make-up sex at the moment." Ziva lay down next to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Make up sex implies some kind of resolution has been made," she huffed. "Absolutely nothing about this issue has been resolved. This," she motioned between them, "is a temporary détente."

"Oh is it?" he asked, planting a kiss on the top of her head.

"Mmhmmm." Gibbs saw her blink heavily. His hand began to trace circle on her back, which had been left exposed as she lay on her side to face him. His own body began to relax with the familiar motions and her steady breathing.

"We'll talk about this more when we wake up," he assured her.

"Count on it," she breathed, clearly falling victim to her exhaustion. Another moment more and her eyes shut completely, and her breaths deepened.

In the moments before he too succumbed to slumber, Gibbs thought about their dilemma. Was Ziva right? How much of his decision was based on the fact that it was a risky mission, and how much of it was based on the fact that he would be risking _her_? After a few minutes' contemplation, he realized that it didn't matter. It was true—he wasn't going to let Ziva put herself in deliberate danger, especially when the Bloods were so close. If the events after the Incident had taught him anything, it was that it was the people around you who mattered. Survival was only important if you had someone to live for. And Ziva was his person to live for; he had come to that truth long ago.

So… no. His decision wasn't going to change. The problem with that, though, was that Ziva wasn't going to accept his decision.

As he drifted off to sleep, his last thoughts were of how he could postpone their debate until the Bloods either moved on or made a move on them. He was asleep before he had an answer.

* * *

A/N: An author's note at the end this time! Cool, right? Anywho, here's the deal. I apologize for such a long wait for the next installment of this story (even bigger one to the fans of What If, which looks like its going back on hiatus, at least until the fall breaks hit and I have no more new fodder for Something More). But on a brighter note, I have another chapter of NCIS: Apocalypse ready to be typed, and a new episode to tag in Something More (oooh, I am going to have so much fun! Perhaps not as much fun as the whole "father/daughter" bullcrap, but hey, beggars can't be choosers, right?). Between those two updates, and my homework, and my Reserve duty, I am totally swamped, in a good way. But anyways, so that's what's next up on the agenda!

Also, it is totally possible to do what Ziva does while waiting for Gibbs... falling semi-asleep while standing up. Done it. It works. Felt marginally more rested afterwards, and I was no longer crosseyed from trying to keep my eyes open. I've also fallen asleep while walking/marching, which is much more dangerous, but I doubt I will get a chance to put Ziva through that particular torture!

Hope you liked this chapter! Next chapter is a bit less gloomy, so buckle your seatbelts! It really starts to cook up now! (Can you tell I'm only marginally proud of myself right now? You picked up on it? Darn, I was trying to keep it a secret!) XD

--CSIGurlie07


	4. The Surprise

Several hours later, Gibbs was shocked into abrupt consciousness by an ear-splitting squeal that made his toes curl and his teeth grind together. A symphony of sharp clicks and squeaks followed, echoing throughout the Warehouse. Cries of surprise and alarm could be heard from the Residents, the unfamiliar noise fraying their already sensitive nerves. Within seconds, Gibbs' boots were on and he rushed to investigate the source of the offending cacophony. As he left the Apartment, he noticed that Ziva was not with him, and her boots were missing.

Gibbs made his way through the maze of Apartments, and a few moments later, something other than discord began pouring from the long dormant speaker system mounted on the walls. A tiny spark lit his memory, and he realized it was a song he vaguely recognized. It was music. Gibbs quickly reached the Gathering place, and found Ziva and Abby standing on the right side of the empty space, close to the west wall. They were motionless, staring in wonder at a large black metal box from which cords and cables ran to the wall and disappeared.

Residents were starting to gather, and Gibbs held back, waiting to see how they would react to the Warehouse's newest upgrade. He saw astonishment, confusion, and apprehension, but any concern those reactions elicited was obliterated by the shift of movement where Abby and Ziva were standing. Gibbs' eyes returned to the women, and immediately noticed the beaming smile of triumph that now graced Abby's face. She was clearly proud, and justly so. Gibbs realized then that her pet project was now an official success; she had found a way to harness some form of electricity.

Ziva had closed her eyes, a content smile spreading across her lips as she listened to the notes of the song that was emanating from the speakers. Slowly at first, then with greater deliberation, her foot began to tap, following the heavy beat of the music. As if responding to her enthusiasm, the music began to crescendo— if Gibbs recalled the song correctly, it was about to launch into its first chorus. The beat intensified, and as Gibbs watched, Ziva began to sway. Then, just as the echoing vocals started burst into the chorus, Ziva surprised Gibbs by launching into motion.

She began to dance—not sensuously, as he knew she could, but rather with a carefree air that seemed to be contagious. Abby offered no resistance when Ziva grasped her hands and pulled her to the center of the Gathering place.

With a swift twist, Ziva sent them both into a playful twirl. They spun away from each, and then danced their way back towards each other, playing off each other's movements. They both followed the beat as it _thump_ed through the Warehouse, and broad grins betrayed their joy as they bobbed to the music. Gibbs found himself grinning as well as he continued to watch them.

Abby's movements were characteristically… Abby. Choppy and bouncy, with plenty of head banging. For a moment, Gibbs could see her back in her lab at NCIS, listening to her hair-splitting death-razor-metal-whatever music she liked to listen to. But then he blinked, and the scene was gone, replaced by an equally beautiful scene in the present. The hi-tech lab instruments, the computers, the pristine lab tables, all of that was gone, but her grin was still there, and it was a welcome sight.

Ziva, on the other hand, was showing her exotic roots. Her moves were more graceful than Abby's as she swayed to the beat, and her hips moved effortlessly—up and forward and back, up and forward and back… Gibbs almost lost himself in the smooth shifting of her hips in the subtle pattern of a cha-cha. It was barely there, but it created a stark contrast between the two women's styles.

Then, as vocals began to merge with the electronic instruments, Ziva and Abby shared a look, then a nod, before moving to opposite sides of the crowd that had formed around them. They each grasped the hands of the first person they reached, and pulled them into the center with them. Gibbs did not recall the names of the two men who had fallen victim, but after a few awkward moments of surprised stumbling and standing uncertainly in front of the two dancing women, they succumbed to the growing excitement. Within moments they were bobbing and stepping as well, moving with the women as they danced.

Ziva's partner seemed to have a sudden burst of confidence, as he took the initiative and pulled her in close before spinning the Israeli out. Ziva went with it, allowing herself to spin back to the ring of spectators, where she selected another hapless victim. Her abandoned partner found his own victim, pulling a young woman in to dance. Abby and her partner saw this latest development, and quickly followed suit. Soon, the entire Gathering place was filled with happy cheers and shouts as dancing bodies pressed together in harmony.

Gibbs was content to stand back and watch, happily observing the impromptu celebration. It was amazing; the effect the music had on the Residents was incredible. How long had it been, he wondered, since they had heard music? Since they had been able to let go like this, and simply exist in the moment? Over a year now, he figured. Closer to a year and half. The concept of music hadn't even crossed his mind—only Abby would have thought to reintroduce music in a place like this. A grin appeared on his lips as he caught a glimpse of his scientist dancing with a smiling McGee.

Movement on the fringe of Gibbs' peripheral vision caught his attention, and he turned to see Ziva approaching. A mischievous grin graced her own lips, and her eyes twinkled as she took his hand and pulled him into the milling bodies. Once they were in the thick of it, Ziva drew to a halt, but her body continued to move, never once losing the pulse of the beat. She swayed around him, silently enticing him to join her. Suddenly, Gibbs was all too aware of his age, and felt foolish as he stood steadfast in front of her.

"I don't dance," he informed her, remaining still as a rock. Ziva's eyebrows rose skeptically for a moment before she tilted her head knowingly.

"I find that difficult to believe," she responded casually, brushing against him.

"I don't dance," he repeated, this time with more finality. At first, Ziva's smile remained where it was, but then her brow furrowed as she realized he was being truthful. She regarded him for a moment, and he knew that she was debating whether or not to confront him about it right then and there. Finally coming to a decision, her features relaxed into a mask of indifference. She shrugged nonchalantly.

"Very well," she said with the slightest wrinkle of her nose. "I am sure I can find someone less inhibited who is willing to dance with me." Without waiting for him to reply, she turned to disappear into the crowd. But before she could take another step, Gibbs' hand darted out and snagged her hip. He pulled her backwards until she pressed against his front. As she continued to dance against him, Gibbs found himself responding, his own hips mimicking her movements. Ziva craned her neck to look back at him, but instead of seeing the mild surprise he expected, Gibbs found a triumphant smirk being sent his way.

"Hah," she said. "I knew you had it in you." She leaned farther back until she could murmur in his ear. "Yet another of Gibbs' infamous rules proves itself valid."

"And which rule did you just put to the test?"

"Rule #3," she recited dutifully. "Never believe what you are told—always double check."

"So you were just double-checking then, huh?"

"Yes, and I called your bluff, yes?"

"Yeah," Gibbs replied. "I guess you did." The easy conversation helped dissolve his reservations, and he began to relax as Ziva's warmth worked its magic on him. He began to let his body take over, and as soon as his mind quieted, his movements became smoother, and more natural. Soon, he too was able to feel the pulse of the beat. Slowly Gibbs let himself forget, for just a moment, everything. He let worries about the Bloods, the medical supplies, and the coming summer heat bleed away. He allowed himself to forget that they were in a warehouse on the docks, that they had become drifters, that their lives had been turned upside down by the Incident.

He was able to believe, for just a moment, that there were not 60-plus Residents relying on them for Survival. He was able to believe, for just a moment, that there was only the two of them.

That the Voice and the Shadow did not exist.

That there was only Jethro and Ziva.

Husband and wife.

* * *

A/N: Another note at the end! Yay! Just kidding. I only put this here so that I didn't give anything away. Just some background on this chapter: I know it doesn't really flow with the mood of the earlier chapters, but I was listening to a song the other day while writing an earlier chapter, and I began to think about what would happen if music was reintroduced, and our intrepid team was allowed to let their hair down and have some fun? This is what it resulted in. When I typed it up, I realized how foolish it seemed in comparison to the darkness of the other chapters, and was *this* close to deleting the whole thing. But then I realized that there was an important development tacked onto the very end. And then the entire chapter was justified, and I simply couldn't leave it out. Else the rest of the story lost some of its impact. You'll see.

Don't worry, things pick up in the next chapter. Some action, some more dialogue, less setting the scene... you know, the stuff you've been waiting ever so patiently for. I hope you enjoyed this little piece of apocalyptic fluff. It was a you-know-what to write (this final product is drastically different from the draft), but I think it was worth it. And just so you know, the song I was listening to, and the song I imagined them dancing to is called "I'm Free" by Kenny Loggins. Its on the soundtrack to Footloose, the movie. Call me a dork for listening to soundtracks, but hey, who doesn't like some 80s music every now and then. And the lyrics really fit this scene, I think, and the world they now live in. I think you can probably find a video of it somewhere on youtube...


	5. The Rumble

The next day's morning dawned on a silent Warehouse. The celebration had lasted long into the night, and the Residents had finally drifted back to their Apartments exhausted but content. All but the Guards and Angels on shift were fast asleep, and the first rays of light did little to rouse them.

Suddenly, the door to the Warehouse opened, and a shadowy figure burst through it. It darted in and out of the rows of Apartments, before skidding to a stop in front of the one it had been searching for. Panting, it stepped into the metal box, not realizing it was a bad idea to do so. Before the dark, winded figure could take three steps, it was slammed against the side of the shipping container, with a slender arm pressing against his trachea and a sharp knife to his jugular.

A moment of panic flooded the surprised intruder, until a lantern was lit and the Apartment was illuminated. The threatening arm and knife both belonged to Ziva, whose sharp and piercing eyes quickly recognized the intruder.

"Dammit, Ethan," Ziva said, releasing the youth and sheathing her knife. "What the hell are you doing? I could have killed you."

"I know, Ziva, I'm sorry, but the Angels spotted a gang of Vipers coming down on some Strays, only 150 meters from the Perimeter." Ziva's eyes shot over to meet Gibbs'. They shared a long look, both knowing the implications—it was too close for comfort, and the special agents lying dormant within them stirred restlessly at the idea of an injustice occurring within sight of their walls. Ziva nodded to Gibbs, agreeing with the suggestion his arched eyebrows relayed. In the next moment, both sprang into action, going immediately to their boots.

"How many?" Gibbs asked brusquely as he pulled on his boots.

"Angels counted seven Strays and sixteen Vipers," Ethan responded.

"Sound the alarm," Gibbs ordered. He tied his laces and straightened as Ethan scampered away. A moment later, the youth had begun to slam a heavy pipe against an empty Apartment across the way. The resulting clangor of Ethan's ministrations filled the Warehouse with raucous din, and soon shouts of alarm joined the melee.

Ziva and Gibbs moved swiftly and efficiently, not wasting any time as they swiped their weapons of choice from where they rested against the wall. Both carried knives on their persons at all times, but they knew that they would not be enough to fend off the Vipers. While Vipers were not as infamous as the Black Blood Gang, they still wreaked their share of havoc. They were reminiscent of the gangs that had existed in DC prior to the Incident. They were violent and greedy, and were prone to raping and pillaging rival gangs and passing Strays. Such a large group on a roving Patrol was unusual, and made the situation even more dangerous.

Within moments, Gibbs and Ziva had abandoned their Apartment and made their way quickly through the Warehouse. Gibbs hefted a heavy iron rod in his right hand. It was something he had found on Patrol one night, a pole that was originally designed to break up packed soil for gardening. It featured one end that was a modified chisel, the sides tapered to form a scraping edge, and another end that had been ground into a single point. It was almost five feet long, and solid iron an inch in diameter. The result was a heavier weapon than most people would find preferable, but Gibbs had lost no time in becoming proficient in its use. His muscular physique had not been lost since the Incident, as nearly constant movement had kept him conditioned and regular Encounters kept his skills sharp. In many ways he used the pike as he would a bayonet, if he needed a strike to be deadly, but it was equally easy to utilize in a non-lethal manner. It was capable of breaking bone, even when not wanting to use lethal force, and the speed with which Gibbs wielded it was often enough to discourage his opponents after only a single crushing blow.

Ziva's weapons were also modified gardening tools, but that was where the similarities between the weapons ended. Where Gibbs' pole arm relied on brute strength to wield, Ziva's were lighter, and able to be used with speed and grace. She had designed them herself, using a pair of long-bladed gardening shears that had been foraged from a house in Vector 3. The two halves of the shears had been disarticulated at the hinge, leaving her with identical metal blades attached to wooden handles. She had then snapped the thin pieces of metal that connected the handles to the blades, leaving the metal caps on the ends of the handles. Using a welding torch they had found in one of the shipping containers, Ziva had reattached the handles, this time so that they were at ninety-degree angles to the blades. She painstakingly cut and sanded the handles so that they were a third of their original length, and had managed to sharpen the neglectfully dull blades until they were razor-sharp. The finished product was two identical elbow blades, both of which resembled the _tonfa_ that modern police batons had been modeled after. When she gripped the handles, as she was now doing as she rushed through the Warehouse, the blades ran along the outside of her forearm to reach almost to her elbow.

Other Residents joined them as they passed through the Warehouse, each of them with their own makeshift weapons in hand; chains, pipes, wooden bats, anything that could be swung and could cause any sort of bodily harm. There would be no firearms among them—they were too valuable for an Encounter such as this. The Vipers were not known for carrying guns themselves, and it would be unwise to use their ammunition on the Vipers when there was a good chance of needing them against the Bloods.

By the time they passed through the Warehouse door, Tony and six other Residents had joined them. As they funneled out into the Maze and paused for orders, Gibbs took a quick survey. Ziva was the only woman among them, but Gibbs knew that wouldn't be a problem. These men were all off-duty Guards and Angels, men who had been training with Ziva in their off-hours in an attempt to ready them for a situation like this. They respected her, and knew that she was more than proficient in a close-quarters fight. On top of that, Gibbs knew that they adored her, after witnessing many a confrontation between them and Newcomers who had made the mistake of making a snide remark about Ziva's physical attributes within their hearing. Even if Gibbs had not been present, these men would have followed Ziva through the gates of Hell, the Marine was sure of it. These were good men, and decent fighters. Despite the Vipers' superior numbers, Gibbs was confident that there would be minimal casualties among the Residents when all was said and done.

"Let's go," Gibbs said simply. He turned and set off towards the Perimeter, setting a brisk pace as he led them through the Maze. As soon as they reached the Perimeter, where the Guards were already opening the Gate, the sounds of the struggle could be heard. Fearful cries of pain and mocking whoops and hollers spurred them on, sending them sprinting through the final rows of shipping containers as the Gate was closed, but not locked, behind them. They raced towards the fight, and within moments burst upon the Conflict.

Without breaking stride, Gibbs' keen eyes told him that several of the Vipers had decided to double-team the male Strays, clearly intent on eliminating the greater threat. Others taunted the women, yanking their clothes and pulling their hair as they desperately tried to escape the Vipers' clutches.

With a fierce yell, Gibbs body slammed the closest Viper, his momentum sending the thug sprawling. Then he swung his iron staff around with both hands, sweeping another's feet out from under him. The Vipers had clearly been taken by surprise, as for several moments, shouts of alarm joined the cries of their victims. But the Vipers quickly recovered, and were soon striking back with their own arsenals of 2x4s, tire irons, pipes, and chains.

Gibbs blocked a blow from a tire iron, then trapped it with a twist and yanked it away from its owner, sending it skittering across the cement. He shot a leg out, catching his opponent in the chest. The Viper _whoof_ed from the impact, and he curled in on himself as Gibbs turned to engage the next attacking gangster. A loud clang reverberated up Gibbs' arms as pipe met staff with a vicious blow. Gibbs focused on his new opponent, barely able to spare a thought as to how Ziva was doing before he lost himself in the fight.

* * *

Ziva was close on Gibbs' heels as they came upon the fight. Her sharp eyes immediately caught sight of three Vipers surrounding a felled Stray. Without a second thought, she darted to the thugs and immediately put herself between them and their victim. Her blades came up and blocked the heavy metal chain that swung violently through the air. Then she spun, slamming an elbow into the nose of the Viper to her right. Bone crunched wetly, and a cry of pain quickly followed. With a triumphant grin, Ziva moved on to the remaining two. Avoiding the use of her sharpened blades, she lashed out with a roundhouse, and swung the inside of her forearm towards a Viper's face.

Slamming the end of the wooden grip into his cheek, she sent a swift back kick into the ribs of the viper who had been trying to sneak up behind her. The thug yelled in pain and indignity, but didn't fall until another kick caught him in the throat, making the thug gurgle as he went down.

The resulting momentary reprieve gave Ziva a chance to regain her bearings. Through the din of the struggle, her ears picked up a sound that was distinctly out of place. Her brow furrowed as she struggled to identify it. An icy cold gripped her heart when something clicked, and she realized what it was—the wailing cries of an infant. Ziva whirled around, her eyes darting to locate all the Strays, quickly attempting to identify who was holding a baby.

"No, please, don't!" a desperate female voice echoed to Ziva's ears. The Israeli spun again, but could not find the sources of the pleas."Stop! Not my baby!" Ziva sprinted away from the immediate battle and into the surrounding stacks towards the sound of the desperate cries. She almost missed the presence of four vipers at the end of the row as she barreled past, but she skidded to a stop just as one drew his arm back, a knife gleaming in his hand, ready to plunge it into his victim's chest. The woman he held by the throat was sobbing and pleading, but received nothing but a merciless smirk in return. Ziva saw a box at her feet behind her, and a rustle of a blanket and a heart-wrenching squall told her the baby was inside it.

Without a second thought, Ziva pulled back her arm and then sent one of her blades flying. It sailed gracefully through the air before sinking tip first into the Viper's chest. The woman sank to the ground as the grip on her throat loosened, and, sobbing, she crawled to where the box lay. The other three Vipers saw their comrade fall; by the time they turned to face Ziva, she was on them.

Fury fueled her movements as she lashed out, surprising them by using her momentum to slide to a stop, much as a baseball player would when trying score a run, and shot out a leg to sweep two of them off their feet. She then spun into a fighting stance, from which she delivered a sharp side-kick to the one left standing. He was waiting for her though, and caught her leg mid-strike. A pipe slammed into one of her kidneys, making her cry out in pain. But the adrenaline surging through her kept her on her feet, dulling the immediate agony, and she managed to slash out at her captor. He dropped her leg quickly, but she was not quick enough to block the pipe's second blow.

Only her reflexes kept her from taking the full force of the blow—she twisted at the last moment so that the pipe seared across her cheekbone instead of shattering her jaw. Then she was dodging an attack from the Viper who had trapped her leg, who now wielded a metal chain in each hand. The links were thick and heavy, and the Viper was twirling them lazily as he waited for his moment to strike. The two Vipers were quicker than she would have liked, and was finding it difficult to land a decent blow on one without leaving herself open to an attack from the other. A moment later, just as she was avoiding the pipe, panic hit her—there had been four of them when she had first found them. She had killed one, two were fighting her now… where did the last one go?

An agonized scream from behind answered her unvoiced question. A frantic glance towards the sound yielded the sight of the final Viper withdrawing his knife from between the woman's ribs. She fell to the ground, motionless. The blade was slick with her blood, and glinted darkly in the growing light.

The moment's distraction was enough to send her sprawling as one of her opponents tackled her from behind. Reacting instinctively, Ziva did not resist the motion, instead taking advantage of the momentum to roll onto her back. The Vipers fell on her instantly, but Ziva kicked one back while she sliced the chest of the second with her remaining blade. The wound was not fatal, she knew, but it was enough to send blood flying, splattering her face and arms. For a moment the gangsters fell back, and Ziva scrambled to her feet just in time to see the last Viper standing over the infant, dripping knife in hand and a malicious gleam in his eye.

Ziva immediately loosed her second blade, which missed its mark by a fraction of an inch. But the angle of its flight caused the blade to sail wide to the outside, so that instead of severing the man's spine, it knocked the knife from his hand and sent both blades skittering out of his immediate reach. Abandoning her first two opponents, Ziva surged towards the endangered infant. The now weaponless Viper turned to meet her advance head-on. She dodged his first blow, but was caught by his elbow on the backswing. She delivered a quick punch of her own, her fist connecting solidly with his ribs. He attempted to wrestle her to the ground, but was thwarted by the back of her head slamming into his nose. It stunned him enough for Ziva to twist in his grasp and send her knee into his groin.

Then she was completely free, and she immediately went to the box. All rational thought left her as she responded to the instinctual need to protect the infant that rested inside. She barely had time to scoop the child into her arms before the other two Vipers caught up with her. A blow from the pipe came dangerously close to her kneecap, causing her leg to buckle involuntarily. The chains soon followed, and the end links wrapped around her arms as they connected. Ziva hunched over and wrapped her arms around the bawling infant in an attempt to shield it from errant blows.

Her mind raced as she scrambled to find a way to get them both out of the situation alive. But with blows from three Vipers raining down on them, Ziva found she couldn't move without the risk of the baby getting hit. Even standing to run would leave it vulnerable to the reach of the metal chains that were currently pounding against her back.

When the pipe came crashing down on her ribs, she couldn't silence the scream that escaped her lips. She curled herself as tightly as she could around the baby. As she ran through her painfully limited options, Ziva couldn't help but notice that the infant was no longer crying against her. Looking down at the small bundle in her arms, she found a pair of bright blue eyes gazing curiously back at her.

* * *

Gibbs sent the last of the Vipers head over heels with a well-placed sweep of his staff that, causing the gangster to crack his head against the pavement and lay unconscious under the Voice's piercing gaze. Accepting that the thug was no longer a threat, Gibbs took a moment to take stock of his surroundings. Looking around, he found the rest of his men all still standing. Apparently deciding the Strays were not worth fighting the Residents who had come to their defense, the Vipers still on their feet scampered off. Gibbs' men let them go, instead helping the fallen Strays to their feet. Some Residents had taken a few knocks, but the worst injuries Gibbs could see were a few split lips and a bloody nose.

Suddenly, dread gripped Gibbs by the gut as he realized someone was missing.

"Ziva!" Gibbs shouted, trying to keep panic from edging into his voice. The other Residents heard him though, and instantly began to glance around for their leader, concern writ clearly across their features. "Ziva!!" Gibbs called again, this time louder. But no response yielded itself. His breath caught in his chest, and Gibbs momentarily forgot to breathe. In the following silence, an angry voice echoed through the stacks.

"Stupid bitch!"

An agonized scream followed, and in the next moment, all of the Residents sprang into action, sprinting into the stacks. Gibbs outpaced them all, and was the first to find three Vipers whaling on a single hunched figure. Panic flooded him, but before it had a chance to paralyze him, he was charging forward with a yell that distracted the thugs from their victim.

As soon as he was in reach, the iron pike in his hand came up to slam into a face. A pipe was dropped in shock, followed quickly by a shriek of pain. The Viper stumbled back, only to be replaced by his buddy, who wasted no time in swinging a chain in his direction. Gibbs ducked, dropping his pole arm, and swept in close to slam his fist into the gangster's abdomen. Another punch, this time to the face, and then the other Residents took over, leaving Gibbs free to check on the battered figured still crouched on the pavement.

"Ziva!" Gibbs said, kneeling next to her, gingerly placing a hand on her shoulder. "Are you hurt?" he asked, his concern audible. "Ziva—"

"I am fine," she interrupted. Her voice was soft, and though she tried to hide it, he could hear that she was in pain. She moved to get off her knees by getting a foot beneath her, but her movements were stiff and unbalanced, so Gibbs gently helped her to her feet.

"Ziva, what—" Gibbs' confusion as to how the Vipers had gotten the jump on her was forgotten as he saw the bundle in her arms. "What in the hell." It was more a statement of wonder than a question, but Ziva took it upon herself to explain nonetheless.

"They were going to kill it," she said, looking at him. "I tried to save its mother, but—"

"Margaret!"

A Stray rushed forward, only to stop short of the woman's lifeless body, which by now was lying in a large pool of blood. The Stray ran a calloused hand over his bearded jaw.

"Is she your… wife?" Tony asked. His eyes tried to remain focused on the Stray he was speaking to, but they were inevitably drawn to the sight of the baby resting peacefully in Ziva's arms.

"God no," the Stray said bluntly. Upon seeing the questioning gazes shooting in his direction, he scrambled to amend his statement. "She was a great girl," he assured them, "but she was hung up on her husband's death. Died a couple of months ago." The Stray paused. "I always got the feeling that she would have joined him if not for that little girl, you know? She loved that kid."

"Kid have a name?"

"Uhm, yeah," the Stray said. "Natalia. Margaret said it was the husband's mother's name, or something."

"Natalia," Ziva echoed, gazing down at the baby. The little girl cooed back at her, reaching up to curl a tiny fist around a lock of the Israeli's hair. Gibbs' heart warmed as he saw Ziva smile back. "A beautiful name for a beautiful girl, heh?" Ziva murmured softly. A slender finger traced the curve of a cherubic cheek.

"I'm Robert, by the way," the Stray offered, stepping closer to Ziva with a familiar intent in his eyes. Gibbs bristled, but Tony interceded before any action on the Voice's part was necessary.

"And she's someone you don't want to mess with," Dinozzo said, placing a restraining hand on Robert's shoulder. "You got all your gang here? Except for Margaret?"

"Whoa, whoa," Robert said. "We are _not_ a gang. We just—"

"Travel together," Tony finished. "Yeah, we've heard that before." He looked pointedly at the Stray. "Question still stands."

"Yeah, we're all here," Robert replied, after taking a quick look at the others. "Look, thank you, for your help. We'd probably all be dead right now if you all hadn't shown up when you did. Anyone ever tell you that you had great timing?"

"Once or twice." Tony shot a questioning look towards Gibbs, who responded with a short nod. "Look, Bob-o, I bet you guys could use a safe place to stay for the night. Why don't you all come back with us and crash at our place. Give a chance for those Vipers to clear out." After a moment of consideration, Robert nodded in acceptance.

"I can't speak for the others, but I for one am not looking forward to spending the entire night out here with those guys hanging around." When the others bobbed their heads in agreement, Gibbs shifted his attention back to Ziva.

"You ready to go home?" he whispered softly in her ear. She nodded, barely sparing him a glance as she continued to look at Natalia. Gibbs bit back a grin. He turned to the other Residents. "Logan, Jerry, Steve, escort those jokers back there off the docks. Knock 'em out first. No need to be gentle."

"Aye, Gunny," Steve said. The only other Marine among the Residents, Steve addressed Gibbs by his former rank out of respect—Marine to Marine. Not needing further instructions, Steve took charge of the transport detail, motioning for the others to start moving. As they each started dragging the Vipers who had been attacking Ziva away, Gibbs turned to leave.

"Let's go," he said. Ziva finally looked up, turning to follow him. But her first step nearly sent her sprawling as her damaged knee gave out. Gibbs' quick reaction kept both her and the baby from pitching forward onto the pavement. This time, he did not remove his steadying hand.

"As soon as we get back," he said, "you're going to see Ducky." Ziva gave him a sharp look. "No arguing. You're going," he said as she opened her mouth to protest. After a moment, she smirked.

"I was going to say," she corrected smugly, "that I will go. But there is not much purpose in it, as he has nothing but aspirin and band-aids to fix me up with." She arched a superior brow at him. "Remember?"

"Yeah," he said, a grin finally allowed to grace his features, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "I remember." He guided her forward, leading them all back to the Perimeter. "And if you think this has changed my mind, you took one too many blows to the head."

* * *

A/N: I have been on a total roll lately, can't you tell? And this coming Tuesday is just screaming for a Zibbs tag. I can't wait. Until then, enjoy this, and hopefully I can refrain from updating again until my weekend homework is finished... I swear, this story is going to make me fail all my courses this semester! I'm totally addicted to writing this stuff.


	6. The Argument

"Your ribs are most certainly fractured, my dear" Doctor Mallard said as he gently prodded the bruised flesh of Ziva's side. The Israeli was sitting patiently on a milk crate in Ducky's Compartment, her shirt removed to give him easier access to her injuries. Natalia was sleeping peacefully in Gibbs arms as he stood in the doorway, watching with mild concern.

"I could have told you that, Ducky," Ziva responded drily.

"Yes, I am sure you have had your share of battered ribs in the past," Ducky remarked.

"What about her leg, Duck?" Gibbs interrupted.

"It does not appear to be broken, and her knee has full range of motion, even if it is a bit tender."

"Tender?" Gibbs said. "Duck, you saw her come in she could barely walk."

"Well, it is possible that a bit of nerve was damaged, which would account for the stiffness of movement."

"It is fine, Gibbs," Ziva said, giving her lover a pointed look. "I have had much worse."

"Even so my dear," Ducky replied, "it is going to swell quite a bit over the next few days. I recommend staying off of it as much as possible. If you'd like something for the pain—"

"I will pass, thank you," Ziva said shortly, moving to put her shirt back on. Her movements were abbreviated by the damage to her ribs, but she managed the task on her own nonetheless.

"Take the damn aspirin, Ziver," Gibbs ordered in exasperation. Ziva shot him a sharp glare.

"You mean waste it?" she rolled her eyes. "You and I both know that it will not do anything substantial with the pain, and we have so little of it that it would be irresponsible for me to use it." She stood. "I will pass," she reiterated. Her tone was final, and, as if for emphasis, she strode forward with only the slightest of limps. She held her arms out for the baby, whom Gibbs passed over without protest.

"That kid really has you wrapped around her finger doesn't she?"

Tony stood in the doorway, lounging casually against the wall. Ziva spared him the briefest of glances before checking that Natalia did not awaken as she settled in the Isreali's arms. A slight grimace flitted across Ziva's features as she reclaimed possession of the baby, but it disappeared before Gibbs could do or say anything about it.

"But you know," the Italian continued, "I can't really say I blame you. I mean, she's just so darn cute. So cute, in fact, that I took it upon myself to go see if we had any supplies for the little tyke. And you'll never guess what I found." Gibbs scrutinized the younger man, taking in the self-satisfied grin and twinkling eyes. Whatever the idiot had discovered, Gibbs decided, it was good news. He waited semi-patiently for Tony to continue. As with all of Dinozzo's successes, he did not have to wait long for the man to spill his guts.

"Mark and his boys cracked open Sector Four a couple of weeks ago, and found not one, but _two_ containers of baby supplies. Formula, diaper rags, clothes… you name it. No cribs or anything, but the necessities are all there. I'd say you're good for, oh, the next eighteen months or so." Tony's pride in himself was palpable, and Gibbs found himself grinning in reaction. It didn't help his steely resolve that Ziva's own expression had lit up with silent delight at her partner's words as well.

"Thank you for checking, Tony," she said softly. Mild surprise crossed Dinozzo's expression at the tenderness of her words, but he recovered quickly.

"My pleasure," he responded congenially. He walked over to where Ziva stood to peer over her shoulder at the sleeping babe. "It's kinda weird you know?" he whispered. "It's like the Twilight Zone, seeing a baby in a place like this."

A soft hiss of pain from Ziva sparked Gibbs' concern, and he sent a sharp look towards Tony, who was apologetically retrieving his hand from where it had been resting on her shoulder.

"All right," Gibbs said. "You're coming with me back to the Compartment, and you're going to get some rest." He gave her an intense look. "For the rest of the day."

"Okay," she conceded, much to the others' surprise. She looked at them when silence met her response. "What? The baby needs some decent sleep, and I am not about to leave her in the Compartment alone."

Tony choked back a laugh at Ziva's rationalization, and Gibbs moved quickly to take advantage of Ziva's currently dormant stubborn streak. He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Giving Tony a pointed look that promised a head slap in the near future if he made another comment, Gibbs quickly ushered Ziva out Ducky's Compartment and back to their own.

To Gibbs' pleasant surprise, someone had anonymously put a mattress where their pile of cardboard had previously resided. Extra blankets had also been donated as well, and Gibbs could see a box of baby formula and bottles in the corner. As he got both Ziva and the baby comfortable , Gibbs realized how grateful he was for the mattress; with nothing but a pile of cardboard between her and the steel floor, taking a nap probably would have only exacerbated her injuries. As it was, it took little effort to ease her down onto the mattress and get Natalia swaddled in clean blankets before placing her next to Ziva.

"You need to go brief the Council on what happened," Ziva said, gazing up at him. Gibbs nodded.

"I'll be back as soon as I'm done," he told her. "Try to get some rest, okay?" He brushed a kiss across her lips, which she returned tenderly.

"Yes, yes," she teased with a grin. "Go, be a leader. We are not going anywhere."

*******

"Ziva found what?"

Gibbs stood in the office with the rest of the Council, having just finished briefing them on the morning's events. McGee had been the first to voice his shock, but was not the only one to stare at their leader in disbelief.

"A baby," Gibbs responded. "Ziva rescued an infant, but the mother was killed by the Vipers. Natalia will be staying with us."

"Awwww!" Abby exclaimed, her excitement tangible. "What a pretty name!" She paused. "Wait, won't the other Strays want to keep her with them?"

"I'd pay money to see them try and take her," Tony remarked with a grin. "Trust me Abs, Ziva is not going to let that kid go without a fight."

"And none of them are the father," Gibbs added. "They're not a gang. They don't feel any kind of responsibility to each other that would rationalize taking a baby with them." At this, any restraint Abby had been exhibiting vanished as she launched herself at Gibbs, latching her arms around his neck enthusiastically.

"I'm an aunt!" she exclaimed. "Yaaay! I've always wanted to be an aunt!" She pulled away to make eye contact with Gibbs. "Where is she? I wanna see her!"

"Easy, Abs," Gibbs said. "She's with Ziva, and they're both resting."

"Can I go see them? I'll be really really quiet, I promise! Just a little peek?"

"You mean you want to try sneaking up on a sleeping woman who is notorious for her ninja skills and is currently in the middle of her first stint in lioness mode?" Tony asked, giving Abby an exaggerated look. Abby's brow furrowed, and she chewed her lip as she weighed his words.

"Yeah, you're right," she conceded. She whirled back towards Gibbs, her expression all business. "But I get first dibs on the kid as soon as they wake up, capische?" Gibbs looked at her with a skeptical brow, and after a moment, she softened. "Pretty please?"

With a smile, Gibbs nodded in agreement, eliciting another hug from the Goth. "Yay!" she said. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"Okay," Mark spoke up, drawing focus back to the reason they were getting debriefed. "Ziva found a kid. What about the Vipers? Are they a problem?" Gibbs took a moment to disengage from Abby before answering.

"Not for the Warehouse. We dumped the ones still breathing away from the Docks. It was just a Patrol, probably not from the immediate area."

"Are you sure? With the Bloods so close—"

"They'll probably help us with the Black Blood Gang," Gibbs interrupted.

"You thinking alliance, boss?" Tony asked.

"Hell no, Dinozzo," Gibbs replied. "Diversion. The Vipers maintain a higher profile than we do. The Bloods, if they're close enough, will catch wind of them first, and the Vipers might put up enough of a fight to keep them occupied until we can get a handle on what the Bloods are doing around here."

"I like the way you're thinking boss," Tony said. "We get to do some Recon, come up with some plans… It's perfect!"

"We should advise the Residents to hold off on leaving though," Gibbs added.

"Good idea boss," McGee said. "We don't want them getting caught in the crossfire."

"What about the Strays?" Tony asked.

"S.O.P.," Gibbs responded. "Let them stay a few days, give them the rundown. They want to stay, they can, but they gotta pull their weight."

"Got it boss."

"Any other injuries that need tending, jethro?" Ducky asked. "I think I saw a bit of blood on Mr. Reynolds on his way in."

"Just a bloody nose, Duck," Gibbs said. "Most of that blood wasn't his."

"I thought that might be the case." The doctor paused. "You know, Jethro, I am little concerned about Ziva's injuries."

"She refused the aspirin, Duck. I'm not gonna be able to change her mind," he said honestly.

"It is not the refusal that bothers me. In fact, I believe she made the correct decision. The ibuprofen would have done next to nothing for her discomfort. She needs an anti-inflammatory. We are lucky she was not more grievously injured. One more blow to her ribs and she probably would have sustained a collapsed lung." The look the Scotsman sent Gibbs was scathing. "With things as they are, she would not have survived."

"Duck—"

"This is a very serious matter!" Ducky's voice rose. "And it would not have been an easy death, either! Days, maybe even a week of agonizing pain as she slowly suffocated to death!"

"Ducky!" Gibbs tried to interrupt, but the medical examiner didn't back down.

"I do not think you have thought your decision through." The accented voice was low, and more intense than the Council had heard in years. "Would you be able to watch her slowly slip away? Or would you be strong enough to end her suffering yourself, knowing that it had been your decision that had caused her death?"

"Enough!" Gibbs bellowed. Ducky was the only one to not flinch as the Voice's anger crackled throughout the room. "I am NOT going to send anyone on a goddamn suicide run. We don't know anything about what's beyond Vector 9, and I am not going to risk anyone's life until we do!"

"That's not good enough. Anything less than sending out a Patrol to that hospital immediately could be too late. It almost _was_ too late!"

"And I have made my decision!" Gibbs stepped up to the older man, and for a long moment, they shared a fiery gaze. "You don't like it," Gibbs growled dangerously, "feel free to leave with the Strays."

Silence reigned as neither man backed down, and the rest of the Council watched with bated breath, frozen in shock as the silent moments ticked by. After several long moments, Ducky's expression shifted to scorn, and without another word, turned and left the Office. The door slammed shut with a sharp bang, and making all but the Voice jump. All eyes returned to the silently fuming figure, who regarded them all with a scathing look.

"Anyone else?"

The office was dead silent as no one moved, no one breathed. Ducky may have left, but the situation was no less volatile.

"I didn't think so."

Then the Voice turned, and the door slammed shut a second time as he stormed out of the room. After a long silent moment, the rest of the Council tore their eyes from the door to glance nervously at each other. Finally, Tony spoke up.

"I dunno about anyone else, but I'm hoping having a baby in the Warehouse will mellow him out."

*****

Gibbs leaned against the open doorway of the Compartment, allowing the burning anger in his gut melt away at the sight of Ziva sleeping peacefully next to Natalia. The last time Gibbs had had thought about Ziva with children had been before the Incident, during a case he barely remembered. It had been shortly after Dinozzo's undercover mission had come to light, and Jeanne Benoit had left him. But after that case, even after he and Ziva had developed a romantic relationship, he hadn't eve considered children. And after the Incident, it would suffice to say that any thought of procreation had been eclipsed by the instinct to simply stay alive.

But now, looking at the two sleeping forms on the mattress, he realized he had been an idiot. Never before had he seen something so natural, so… right. Not since Shannon and Kelly, anyway. And after the Incident, most of his memories of events prior to his second coma had been reduced to nothing more than feelings. He could no longer conjure a memory of what Shannon and Kelly looked like, or how they sounded. But her remembered the warmth of the love they had shared, the comfort of being a family. Ducky had said his foggy memories were a result of stress, fatigue, and his multiple brain injuries over the years, but as he stood there in the Warehouse, he realized that he had remembered the most important part of his past.

Guilt nagged at Gibbs' conscience. He didn't like arguing with Ducky. Usually, when the M.E. fought so vehemently for something, he was in the right. And as he looked at his sleeping wife, Gibbs heard echoes of Ducky's words ring in his ears. His friend was right about one thing—Gibbs had come dangerously close to losing her this morning. And after such an enjoyable, carefree evening the night before, he was painfully aware that anything could happen at any time.

But he stood by his decision. There was simply too much uncertainty about the situation, and the Bloods were too dangerous to do anything on a whim, without having some semblance of Intel to help shape their plan of action.

Gibbs was pulled from his thoughts by a soft whimper that emanated from the direction of the mattress. His first thought was that Natalia was waking, but then Ziva shifted fitfully with a low moan. Her brow furrowed as she turned again, and Gibbs realized she was having a nightmare.

He slipped silently into the Compartment and moved directly to her side. He knelt on the mattress next to her.

"Ziva," he said softly, trying not to wake her too suddenly. Normally, he would have let her ride it out, but between the baby and her injuries, doing so now could cause more harm than waking her. But his efforts to be gentle were for naught; before his hand had a chance to touch her shoulder lightly, she bolted upright with a gasp. Panic and confusion flooded her gaze for a short moment before the pain of her movements hit. With a low cry she tensed, an arm coming up to wrap around her middle.

"Whoa, whoa," Gibbs said, quickly moving to brace her, allowing her to lean against him and relieve the strain on her ribs. "It's okay," he soothed, more for his benefit than for hers. He doubted she heard him, as her eyes and jaw were clenched tightly shut as she let the pain pass.

After a long moment, she relaxed a little against him, letting him know the pain had dulled slightly. When he asked if she was alright, she nodded.

"I am fine," she said. "I just sat up too quickly."

"I'd say," he remarked with a grin. She sighed in response. "Must have been a hell of a nightmare." He paused. "You wanna talk about it?" It wouldn't surprise him if it had something to do with the Bloods, and memories of that night in the Tunnels. Gibbs thought he saw her eyes flick towards Natalia as she answered.

"I do not remember," she said, her voice husky with sleep. Gibbs' brow furrowed—usually she remembered the dreams that woke her. But he decided to let it go.

"Do you think you could lie back down now?" he asked instead. She shook her head.

"Mmm. No." She placed her hand on his knee. "I like it right here." Gibbs let out a soft huff of amusement.

"Okay," he said. He shifted slightly, just enough so that his back was supported by the bulkhead of the Compartment. "Abby wants to meet Natalia," he informed her.

"I thought she might," Ziva responded tiredly. "I was already planning to find her once the baby woke up." Ziva's eyes drifted towards the sleeping girl. "I am surprised she has slept so long."

"She's had an exhausting day too," Gibbs supplied with a grin. "But don't worry, she'll most likely be up all night."

"Mmhmm," Ziva mumbled. A glance down told Gibbs that she was slowly drifting off again. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. A few moments later, her breathing had evened out once more, and she was sound asleep against him. The steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed softly in his arms soothed him, and he found the tension from his confrontation with Ducky bled away. He had intended to remain awake, so that he would be able to take care of Natalia if she began to fuss, but the battle fatigue from the fight proved too much for his resolve, and within minutes, he had succumbed to Morpheus' call.

********

Several hours later, Gibbs awoke to find himself once again alone in an empty Compartment. Ziva's boots were missing, as was Natalia. Gibbs quickly put his own boots back on and went in search of his absent family. Almost immediately, the sound of a squalling infant greeted his ears. He followed the sound through the stacks until he found Natalia, who was squirming fitfully as she screamed bloody murder in the arms of a frazzled Abby.

"Abby!" Gibbs said loudly over the din.

"Gibbs!" she cried. "Thank goodness! She won't stop crying!"

"Where's Ziva?"

"I don't know! She asked me to watch the baby for a while, and then she left. That was three hours ago Gibbs! And this, this thing had been screaming for the past hour!" Gibbs frowned—it was out of character for Ziva, given the protectiveness she had exhibited earlier that morning.

"Why didn't you come get me?" he asked, buying himself some time to think.

"Well," Abby said sheepishly, "I knew you were trying to sleep, and you had been in a fight this morning, so I didn't want to bother you." Gibbs regarded her for a moment, before an approaching figure caught his attention.

"Dinozzo!" he shouted, catching the younger man's attention as he entered the Warehouse, an unlabeled box in his arms.

"Yeah boss!"

"You seen Ziva?"

"Not since the rumble, Boss," Tony replied, hefting the heavy box to get a better grip. "But I heard she was helping out over in Sector Five."

Gibbs cursed under his breath. Ziva shouldn't be doing any of the heavy lifting that Sector Duty entailed. Motioning for Abby to follow, Gibbs led the way out to the Maze. Sector 5 lay to the south, and it was a short walk through the stacks until they joined the controlled chaos that was the process of unloading the shipping containers.

Residents milled about, some with paper and pencil, taking inventory of the containers' contents, while others carried merchandise back to the Warehouse. Curious eyes followed Gibbs and Abby as they escorted the screaming baby across the Docks. Gibbs found Mark halfway up a metal ladder, directing the Residents who were busy investigating the contents of a fourth-tier container.

"Hey Gibbs!" the scruffy man said as he noticed his leader approach. "What can I do you for?"

"You seen Ziva round here?" Gibbs called up to him.

"Yeah, she's fiddling with something over in Quadrant 2. Uhm…" He considered the clipboard in his hands. "Compartment B-6."

Without another word, Gibbs turned and made his way over to the 16 compartments that were quadrant 2. Compartment B-6 was ground-level, on the far side of the Block. The doors of the container were wide open, and Gibbs was greeted by the sight of Ziva's boots poking out from underneath a wheel-less army-green Jeep that was propped up on cinderblocks.

"Ziva!" Gibbs called as he approached. At the sound of his voice, Ziva rolled out from beneath the vehicle. She sat up on the wheeled backboard she had been laying on and looked up at him as he reached the Container, streaks of oil smudged on her cheeks and hands.

"You are awake," she remarked with a smile. Abby pushed past Gibbs before he could respond.

"Ziva! Where have you been?! Natalia has been crying and you didn't tell me I was going to be watching her forever! She's been changed and fed, but she still won't stop. She's been missing you, which normally I would find adorable, but given the fact I didn't know where you were for the past hour she's been missing you, I no longer think it's cute!" She held the screaming baby out to the Israeli. Ziva stood, but then surprised both of them by turning away.

"Abby, this is no place for an infant." Natalia, who had quieted slightly upon seeing Ziva, resumed her screaming when the Israeli had turned away. The shrieks were shrill, and echoed gratingly in the metal confines of the container.

"You shouldn't be here either," Gibbs told her. Before he had a chance to berate her for disobeying his orders of twenty four hour's worth of bedrest, she cut him off.

"Do not start with that, Jethro," Ziva returned over Natalia's cries. "I have not been lifting anything, and I was doing nothing simply lying on that mattress. I am just doing the simple task of fixing this old junker here, in the off chance we get our hands on some gasoline. At the very least, it has kept me occupied."

"You'd rather tinker with a piece of crap car than take care of Natalia?" Abby asked, her tone incredulous.

"You asked to carry her, Abby."

"Not for three hours! You need to take her back!" She proffered the squalling babe once more, who only cried louder at the sudden movement.

"Abby, I am filthy, I cannot—"

"No, _I_ can't! Take her!" Natalia's screams amplified once more.

"Abby…"

"Now, Ziva!" The noise became deafening, and Ziva finally snapped.

"ENOUGH, TALI!"

Her sudden outburst left them all stunned—even Natalia was shocked into a moment of silence before starting to whimper softly. Ziva's eyes were wide in surprise—Gibbs' gut told him that she had not meant to shorten the baby's name that way. Tali—Gibbs knew her sister was still too tender a subject for her to have consciously decided to create that particular nickname.

Ziva's eyes darted between Natalia and Gibbs, and he could see concern, alarm, and doubt cloud her expression. Finally, she looked at him, her head shaking in self-doubt.

"I cannot…" Her words trailed off, and instead of trying to finish her thought, she pushed past Gibbs and quickly disappeared among the stacks as she moved back towards the Warehouse. Gibbs couldn't help but notice that her limp was much more pronounced than it had been prior to her nap. For a long moment after Ziva was lost from his sight, he turned to Abby and found her staring at him with wide, confused eyes. Finally, Gibbs crooked a finger at the Goth, indicating for her to relinquish possession of the infant. Abby did so willingly and without question. Natalia whimpered slightly as she was shifted from one person to another, but as she settled in Gibbs arms, tiny hands reached for Gibbs' shirt.

"Should I be worried, Gibbs?" Abby asked once relieved of her burden. "I mean, I'm going to be worrying even if you say I shouldn't, but I would feel better if I was worrying because I wanted to and not because I needed to." She paused. "Tony said she was way protective of Natalia this morning. What changed?"

"I have an idea," Gibbs admitted. He avoided explaining it any further, instead turning and leaving Abby in the container as he followed Ziva's path through the Maze back towards the Warehouse. He wasted no time in going to where he knew she would be—their Compartment. Ironically, it was where she always went when she wanted to shut out the world for a while. Most of the Residents were respectful enough to leave the place alone except in the case of an emergency, so it afforded them a private enough of a place to be alone. Not only that, it was enough for Ziva to feel safe, meaning she would be able to just shut down for a while, and not have to worry about the possibility of a Stray or enemy gang sneaking up on her.

When Gibbs reached the Compartment, Gibbs found Ziva sitting in the shadows of the back-left corner of the familiar space. Her back was resting against the bulkhead, and her knees were drawn up close to her chest with her arms draped around them defensively. Though her posture was withdrawn, she was also relatively relaxed, alerting Gibbs to the fact that she was unsurprised by his decision to follow her.

"You wanna tell me about that nightmare now?" he asked, leaning against the wall just inside the door. She didn't look at him.

"No."

"You need to." Gibbs was willing to be just as blunt as she was.

"Bullshit," Ziva retorted. Gibbs gave her a sharp look; over the past few years, Ziva had adopted more of America's less savory colloquialisms, and though he was familiar with the terms, Ziva's lightly accented voice gave the words more bite than native speakers generally imparted. "It has nothing to do with you Gibbs," she continued. "Leave it alone."

"Can't do that," Gibbs replied. "And it does have something to do with me." Ziva didn't respond, so he continued after a moment's pause. "It's bothering you, which is more than enough to get me involved. And it has something to do with Natalia too, which makes it even more my problem. This morning you were ready to bite the head off anyone who looked at her sideways, and now you can barely stand to look at her. You aren't the type to simply lose interest, and the only thing that's happened between now and then is the nightmare you claim to not remember."

"I do not want to talk about it."

"Not gonna fly, Ziver." Gibbs took a step forward to take a seat on the overturned milkcrate, facing his partner. "You're going to have to talk about it. Natalia needs you." A moment of silence followed, and Gibbs let her have it, seeing the wheels turning in her head. Finally she gave a heavy sigh.

"Tali needed me too," she said softly. "I wasn't there when she needed me the most."

"You think Natalia is going to end up like Tali?" As Gibbs had suspected, Ziva's earlier slip of the tongue had been more than a mistake of convenient coincidence.

"My nightmare was simply a necessary reminder that the people I am supposed to protect have a habit of dying." Ziva's voice was bitter. "It is safer for Natalia to have another guardian."

Gibbs looked from Ziva to the girl in his arms, taking a moment to determine the best course of action. Though he was not as fully aware of the circumstances surrounding Tali's death as he was Ari's, Gibbs knew that Tali had been murdered by a suicide bomber at the tender age of sixteen. It was not too far a leap to guess that Ziva had either been near the blast but had been unable to prevent it, or that she had been supposed to have been with her sister at the time of the bombing but for some reason was not. Either way, her guilt was palpable, and unlike the instance of Ari's death, she could not draw comfort from the fact that someone else's life had been saved. The loss of her sister had never healed; instead it had simply scabbed over as the years passed and life went on. But every now and then the scab was ripped off, revealing the raw weeping wound beneath.

But despite her insecurities, Gibbs knew that she was the only one who could effectively watch over Natalia. Given the babe's behavior in Quadrant 2, she had already bonded with Ziva. She could already distinguish between her savior and other Residents, and had quite clearly demonstrated her preference for the Israeli. And Gibbs had noticed something else that morning, seeing Ziva care for her new ward, something he couldn't define, or even put his finger on, but was indisputable nonetheless. She needed the little girl as much as Natalia needed her, more than Ziva would like to admit.

Gibbs silently moved off the milkcrate to take a seat next to Ziva. She moved to scoot away, but his hand on hers kept her in place. Natalia reached up from where she lay in Gibbs' arms and curled her tiny fist around one of Ziva's long curls. She cooed softly, obviously calmed by the woman's proximity. For a long moment, Ziva was unresponsive before she reached up to rub the tears from her eyes.

"I do not want her to get hurt Gibbs," she admitted softly. Gibbs shifted closer to her.

"Ziver, if you turn away from her now, you will be hurting her just as much as those Vipers did this morning," he told her in a low voice. She looked at him. "They took her mother from her, and now you're about to do the same thing. She's chosen you to replace her mother, Ziva. You know it as well as I do." Her shoulders slumped slightly, and Gibbs knew he was getting through to her.

"If you doubt me," he continued, "trust your instincts. You have always followed your instincts, and that act alone has kept you and most of us in this Warehouse alive. What are your instincts telling you now?" He looked at her intently. "They're telling you to fight for this little girl, tooth and nail. They're telling you to not let her out of your sight, aren't they?"

"I can't take care of a baby, Jethro," she whispered.

"Yes, you can," he contradicted. "I saw you this morning, Ziva. You're a natural mother. You were handling Natalia like a pro, and she couldn't have been happier." Gibbs paused. "And you're not alone, Ziver. I'm going to be here with you every step of the way. And no," he cut her off as she began to protest, "I can't do it on my own either. Natalia chose _you_."

Ziva shifted her gaze back to the baby. Gibbs watched her expression soften slowly as Natalia tugged gently on her captured curl. Finally, Ziva reached over and took her from Gibbs' arms. The little girl giggled in delight, and Ziva smiled back involuntarily. After a moment, she looked up at Gibbs once more.

"You promise you will not let me screw up?" Gibbs chuckled softly.

"I'll do my best," he assured her. But then his expression turned serious again. "But in all seriousness, Ziva, no one is a perfect parent. You're gonna make mistakes." Her face fell.

"My mistakes get people killed, Jethro." She looked down at Natalia. "I do not want that to happen to her."

"That's what I'm here for," he said. He knew he was entering dangerous territory; he was promising something he may not be able to fulfill. He knew that some things were out of his control. Illness and injury were very real possibilities, and there was always the chance that the Warehouse would be attacked. And if Natalia fell victim to any of those threats, there would be little he could do to help her. And he they lost Natalia, he ran the risk of losing Ziva too. She was trusting him now more than she had ever trusted anyone else before. But he knew it had to be done.

Ziva focused on the baby, tracing a finger along a soft cheek. Natalia gurgled happily, her free hand latching onto the slender finger. After a moment, Gibbs saw something shift in Ziva's gaze, and he knew that she had made a decision.

Gently she pulled the small hand up, and brushed her lips over the tiny fingers. She shifted her grip on the little girl, propping her bundled form up against her drawn up legs. Gibbs scooted closer to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Natalia," she whispered softly. "Welcome to the Warehouse, Tali." The baby laughed, as if she understood every word.

"She's just about the luckiest kid in the world right now, Ziver." He pressed a kiss to his wife's temple. "And I think Tali would be proud of you." Tear-filled brown eyes looked up at him.

"Thank you, Jethro." She paused. "Does this bother you?" she asked. "After Shannon and Kelly?"

"No," he responded without hesitation. Ziva arched an eyebrow at him. "I will always love my first wife and my daughter," he said honestly. "But they're gone. I love you, Ziva. I want a family with you, and the fact that we can have one, even here, now… It's a miracle I'm not about to second-guess."

Ziva's eyes crinkled in appreciation, her lips curving into a smile. She leaned in close to him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips before resting her forehead against his.

"Love you," she said simply, her breath tickling his skin.

"Love you too, Ziver," he returned, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze. "Love you too."


	7. The Decision

"_SHE DID WHAT?!"_

The Voice's bellow thundered through the warehouse, and all movement within the structure ceased. He had only returned from his long-distance Patrol ten minutes ago, and in that time the Voice had managed to corner a poor helpless Resident. He towered over a cowering Resident now, the poor soul who'd been unfortunate enough to suffer the Voice's impatient interrogation upon his return from a four-day patrol. The Resident had tried to stall, to find one of the council, but the Voice had had none of that.

He'd demanded to know where Ziva was, and when he was consequently enlightened, his rage echoed within the metal walls of the Warehouse. The sound of his shout sent Abby scurrying towards both men, intent on rescuing the hapless Resident. She rushed as quickly as she could without disturbing Natalia, who was perched on her hip, and within moments she was within eyeshot of them.

"Gibbs!" she called, rushing closer. The Voice turned, his features a mask of rage and—if Abby wasn't mistaken—slight panic.

"Abby!" the Voice barked. "What the hell—"

"Gibbs, calm down. It isn't his fault." She waved towards the terrified Resident, who was quivering in the Voice's grasp, whose fist was tightly gripping the front of his flannel shirt.

"Abby—"

"She's gone," Abby cut off. The Voice's eyes flashed.

"Yeah, Abs, that's what _this_ idiot already said…"

"Gibbs?" Abby's voice was carefully calm. "Let the idiot go?" she asked with plaintive smile. Gibbs hesitated, but then relinquished his hold. "Okay, good. Sorry, George," she directed towards the Resident, who shot her an appreciative glance before scurrying away.

"Abby, tell me what the hell is going on."

"Maybe we should talk about this somewhere more private…"

"Where is my wife!" Gibbs demanded.

Abby winced. "Okay, okay…" She took a deep, steadying breath. "Two days ago, after you left for your Patrol, Tom sliced his hand open on some sheet metal. Ducky tried to patch him up as best he could, but there wasn't much he could do with band-aids and ibuprofen…"

"So?"

"So, Ziva was apprised of the situation, since she was in command, and when she saw what was going on—well… you know Ziva."

"She went to the hospital." Gibbs' voice burned with rage.

"Yeah," Abby said, her tone apologetic, even though she had had no say in it. "She said no one was going to die of stupidity on her watch."

"And you just let her _go_?"

"Hey!" Abby shouted back. "Don't blame this on me! I tried to get her to wait until you got back, but she wouldn't! You know what she's like when she makes a decision! And besides, she didn't go alone."

"Well, who the hell went with her?"

"Sergei and Rider. As soon as they heard about her intentions, they volunteered their services."

Gibbs took a deep breath, feeling somewhat appeased at that nugget of information. Of all the Residents in the Warehouse, Sergei Sokolov and Phil Rider were the two Gibbs would want most as Ziva's backup. Both were elite members of the Guard, both with extensive military training—Sergei as Russian Spetsnaz, and Rider as Navy SEAL. They were highly capable, and of all the Residents they were the two most devoted to Ziva.

They had been relatively new additions to the Warehouse, having only been around for a little over eight months. The two men had been traveling together since the Incident, and together they had been crass, abrasive and unwilling to trust anyone else. They only reason they had spent any time at the Warehouse at all was because Sergei had had an infected gash along his ribs. They had tried to pick fights with the other Residents, and had participated in multiple shows of alpha male posturing that had nearly driven Gibbs to murder.

Finally, Ziva had persuaded them into a Patrol, through a rather impressive and roundabout questioning of their manhood. Gibbs had been grateful to get them away from the other Residents, even for only a short time, but as always, it had not been completely without unforeseen consequences. They had been jumped by a band of lurking Locos—a short-lived motorcycle gang that had been at the peak of its power at the time—and had it not been for Ziva's quick thinking and knack for command, all three of them would have been killed.

As it was, her prowess and tactics had surprised both men, and upon questioning, she had revealed her history as Mossad. That was all it took to earn their respect, and their understanding of the situation placed them squarely in Ziva's debt. In their quest to repay her, they had remained with the Residents, and began to work as functional members of the quasi-society. As they stuck around longer, and as Ziva allowed them to spar with her, their respect and admiration had transformed into true affection.

Gibbs had no doubt that if the situation called for it, one or both men would give their lives for Ziva. His only concern was that it may not be enough against the Bloods.

"So," Abby continued, breaking Gibbs from his thoughts, "she accepted their help, gave me the baby—"

"And Tali didn't fuss?" The question was out of character, even to his own ears, but he was too surprised to remain silent. Since the day Ziva had reaffirmed her role in the child's life, Natalia had grown so attached to the Shadow that the baby could barely go a half hour without her before she began to scream bloody murder.

"Oh no, she did," Abby affirmed. "But I gave her one of Ziva's shirts, and I think Natalia recognized her scent or something, because she's been relatively calm since then." Finally, she sighed. "Look, Gibbs, I know you don't like it, but she did what she thought was best for us. And besides, she's supposed to be back this afternoon. You can yell at her directly when she shows up safe and sound." She grinned devilishly. "But I don't think you will because once we have both Ziva and more supplies in the Warehouse, you'll be so relieved you'll admit she was right. Or at least, that she wasn't wrong."

Gibbs gave her a stern look, but when the scientist wasn't fazed, he just gave a short huff. He stepped forward to kiss both her and Tali on the cheek.

"You're right," he admitted softly.

"Of course I am," she admonished. "Now could you take your beautiful demon kid? She weighs a ton! What have you guys been feeding her?"

---

The rest of the day was spent working with DiNozzo trying to compile and analyze the Intel he had helped collect on the long-distance Patrol he had just returned from. By all appearances, the Coast to the southeast was completely untouched by the Bloods. There had also been limited evidence of other gang activity, which Gibbs found reassuring. There was an escape route established that would take them away from both the Warehouse and the Docks, but beyond that, there was no existing plan in place as to what they would do once they were clear of the immediate vicinity.

The region Gibbs had scouted would serve well as a temporary haven. It included a system of natural caves that would give them some semblance of shelter, and would give them a defensible location from which they could find something more permanent.

He shared these observations and more with DiNozzo and together they began to form potential contingency plans. As they did so, Gibbs' worry for Ziva remained a sharp awareness in the back of his mind. But he held his peace, and remained focused on the task at hand. He tried not to focus on the fact she was still healing from her busted ribs and damaged knee. She would return before sundown, he reassured himself. She would.

But as the afternoon dragged on, and then the sun began to set, and there was still no sight of her, his concern grew. Dread filled him as the moon began to rise, and there was still no word. He kept Tali with him, which kept the baby calm enough to finally doze in his arms, and Abby remained close by once the sun disappeared. She knew he would be on edge until Ziva showed up, and the scientist ran interference to make sure no other Resident got caught in the crossfire.

Somehow, Gibbs managed to maintain his bearing, and had the presence of mind to have the Guards, Patrols, and Angels on duty to keep a sharp eye out for the missing trio, or any potential signs of distress. Then he returned to his Compartment to put Tali to bed, trusting that the Defenders' solemn nods meant that his confidence in their abilities was not misplaced. They didn't know all the details, nor did they need to. All the grapevine had passed along was the fact that Ziva had gone into Vector Nine. Her late return could indicate possible injury or capture, and they could not be sure that the Bloods would not be on their way to the Warehouse themselves.

But Gibbs allowed DiNozzo to organize them further, as he made the executive decision to stay with Tali. The baby began to snore lightly as soon as she was bundled up on the mattress, and soon enough Abby dozed off as well. Gibbs remained awake, too anxious to even think about sleeping. He waited silently, and as each uneventful hour passed, his feeling of dread grew heavier, until his gut felt leaden.

The first light of dawn was just beginning to creep over the horizon when a development finally manifested. Gibbs had expected one of the Angels to give him an update as soon as Ziva was spotted, but instead the silence of the slumbering Warehouse was shattered by the explosion of a door slamming open against the metal siding of the structure.

"GIBBS!"

The bellowing of his name was heavily accented—but not the accent he had been hoping for. It belonged to a male, and it rumbled loud enough throughout the Warehouse to wake every single Resident.

"GIBBS!" came the shout again, but it was not needed—Gibbs was already moving. He passed Talia off to Abby and sprinted to the source of the shout, only slowing when he came within sight of the huffing and puffing gargantuan form in the center of the Gathering Place. The form was alone, save for the two overstuffed sea bags lying at his feet, and even in the darkness Gibbs could see he was drenched with sweat.

Gibbs' heart nearly stopped at the desperate sight, but he shoved the sensation away as the voice took over.

"Sergei," the Voice said, drawing closer to the Russian. "What happened?"

"Gibbs!" Sergei gasped breathlessly. "Bloods—they blitzed us. We never saw it coming—"

The Voice rested his hand on the bulky man's shoulder. "Calm down," he ordered firmly. "Tell me what happened."

"We made it to the hospital. Ziva was right—it was packed with supplies, enough to tide us over for months. We took what we could, and started back. We were ambushed half a mile from the hospital. Twenty Bloods, maybe more." Sergei ran a meaty paw over his face as he gulped down a lungful of air. "Rider fell in the first attack, but Ziva and I were able to escape. We were followed…"

"Sergei." The Voice was hard as stone. He steeled himself to ask the only question that mattered. "Is Ziva dead?"

"I don't know," Sergei gasped, an almost sob escaping him. "God help me, I don't know. She said we needed to split up, to divide their forces. She told me to take the bags and go, to come here as soon as I had a decent lead on any who might pursue. She said she would try to lead them away, to act as a diversion. She told me to—she told me to tell you to evacuate, to abandon the Warehouse. There was no guarantee I would not be tracked. She said we had to leave immediately."

Gibbs' heart plummeted. The only reason Ziva would tell Sergei that was if she thought she would not be successful. He closed his eyes in pain, as he felt himself being torn in two. But then, Abby's voice drifted to his ears.

"Gibbs," she whispered, her eyes wide with fear. "What are we going to do?"

What indeed. His heart said to charge back into the lion's den and retrieve Ziva, but his sense of duty stayed his feet. He had more than himself to think of, more even than Ziva. He had others relying on him, trusting him to keep them alive.

Ziva knew that, and so did he. But—if he obeyed her relayed command, she would not know where they would relocate to. She knew the escape route, but beyond that their plans had always been vague at best. She had no idea where they might end up.

And that realization terrified him.

"Gibbs," Sergei said softly, straightening slightly. He leaned closer so that only the Voice could hear what was next said. "She also asked that I give you this."

Sergei's hand pressed a thin slip of folded paper into Gibbs' fingers. The Voice glanced down at it, then brought it up too look at it more closely. Upon unfolding it, he discovered it was an old prescription slip, no doubt swiped from the hospital.

There, scribbled in what looked like charcoal, was a message.

_I will look for you as long as I live. Keep Tali safe. I love you._

Gibbs' throat tightened, and he fought to keep his threatening tears at bay. He needed to stay strong—for Tali, for the Residents… and for Ziva. Because he knew now what he had to do.

"Get ready to evacuate," the voice commanded, echoing in the tense silence. "We go before full light."

The Residents immediately began to obey, speaking in worried voices as they rushed to their tasks. Only the Council remained behind, and of them only one voiced their doubts.

"No, Gibbs," Abby declared shakily, cradling Natalia in her arms.

"Abby—"

"No!" she cried. "No! Not without Ziva. We can't just leave her out there."

Gibbs moved close to her, close enough to whisper in her ear. "Abby, please," he said softly. "Don't fight me on this." Abby tried to protest, but Gibbs pushed on before she had the chance. "Look at the little girls in your arms, Abs. Look at her." He watched her green eyes glance down. "Ziva entrusted her to your care, Abby, and you accepted. Natalia needs you now, until Ziva can find her way back to us."

For a moment, Abby didn't respond as she looked at the fussing baby in her arms. Then, slowly, she nodded, even as tears slid down her cheeks.

"Thank you," Gibbs whispered. Then, he disappeared, and the Voice took over. "Go pack," he ordered firmly. "For yourself, and the baby too."

As soon as Abby left, Tony approached. "You too, DiNozzo. Square your personals away and then focus on supply. You know what to do." Tony nodded.

"McGee," the Voice continued, "as soon as you're done with yours, help Abby with packing for Natalia. Pack as much formula as you can. We don't know what we'll be able to find for her later."

"You got it, boss," McGee replied simply. He was surprisingly stoic, for which Gibbs was grateful. It was yet another reminder that the world was no longer what it should be—they weren't at NCIS, Ziva wasn't with him, and McGee was no longer a quivering Probie. Gibbs hated it, and yet accepted it in one fell swoop.

He watched the younger man go, then paused for a moment to gather himself. He sighed, running a rough, dirty hand over his eyes as the weight of his decision settled on his shoulders. Then, he sensed someone approach, and he straightened, regaining his strong posture as the approaching man spoke.

"Jethro," came the wizened voice, low and careful under the gravelly, trademark accent. "This is—" Whatever he intended to say was cut off by the Voice.

"Gather the Medicinals," he commanded stiffly. "Get ready to go. Then check over Sergei, make sure he doesn't need any patching up."

And then he left, without once looking at his friend. He couldn't deny he was angry at Ducky, nor could he claim that he didn't blame the medical examiner. If only the man had respected the Voice's decision to disallow any ventures into Vector Nine, if only Ducky had not protested so vehemently about the supplies—then Ziva might have been more patient, and she would have waited at least until Gibbs got back before heading out. As it was, the Voice needed distance between himself and the Doctor, lest his thin control shattered.

The Voice focused on organizing the Guards and Angels into the Patrols they would be working in during the Evacuation. The Residents would be vulnerable in transit, being such a large target as they were, and so slow-moving. A permanent flanking Guard would be necessary. Gibbs was barely aware of completing the last moment preparations, but somehow, someway, the entire Warehouse was ready to go by the time the sun fully appeared over the horizon.

There was barely time to breathe—let alone think—before it was time to move out. Gibbs wanted to stall, to give Ziva more time to get to them before they fled. But the Voice knew it wouldn't do any good. The Shadow wouldn't risk coming back so soon, not with the Bloods so close. She would do everything in her power to draw the Bloods away, to give the Residents more time.

And now the Voice needed to do his part—he needed to get the Residents moving.

Before he moved to take his position at the head of the pack, the Voice was approached by the hulking form of Sergei. For a moment, neither spoke, but the Voice knew what was on the Russian's mind.

"It's not your fault, Sergei," the Voice told him.

"I should have stayed with her," the man rumbled. "I tried to convince her let me help her—"

Realization dawned then, and Gibbs' heart broke just a little bit more. "She was injured, Sergei. Even before she set foot in Vector Nine. She was probably injured again in the blitz. She knew she was going to slow you down. You couldn't drag her and both bags, and someone needed to sound the alarm here. Ziva made her decision, and it gave us a fighting chance." He sighed. "Now we honor that by getting the hell out of here."

"Let me go back for her," Sergei said. "I can catch up when I find her."

"No. You wouldn't do her any good now, and we need you here." And with that declaration made, all hope of seeing Ziva soon was obliterated. Having given sound to the truth of the situation, the Voice returned to take charge. "Arm yourself, get briefed by the Angels."

"Gibbs—" The Russian tried to protest, but the Voice didn't listen.

"You want to do something for her, Sergei? Then honor her by making the same decision she did. Protect these people." Then the Voice grew quiet for a moment, before adding one more thought. "It's what she wanted you to do, Sergei. She was counting on you. Still is."

Finally, the Russian nodded. The Voice clapped him on the shoulder as the man lumbered away, his usually sauntering gait now stiff with displeasure, even as his shoulders slumped in defeat. Gibbs surveyed the amassing Residents with pained, tired eyes. In the throng he spotted Abby, with Natalia bundled up in her arms. Determination filled him then, and he steeled himself for the command to come.

"All right!" the Voice shouted above the hubbub, which immediately fell silent as he captured the attention of the entire Warehouse.

He looked over them once more, then nodded once, with finality.

"Move out!"


	8. The Sanctuary

The Voice sat in front of the crackling fire, allowing its heat to ward off the growing chill of the night.

Had he been back at the Warehouse, the presence of a fire would have been out of the question. It would have acted as a beacon if it had been lit outdoors, leading every gang and Stray in a five mile radius directly to them. And anything burned indoors would have given off enough smoke to kill each and every Resident within the Warehouse walls. But here, in this new home of theirs, a fire was a welcome comfort.

Situated in the depths of a forest, the Sanctuary was a quiet, abandoned town. There was only one Road in or out—the rest of the surrounding area was dense forestation. It had taken the Residents months to stumble upon it, but as soon as they discovered the haven, they knew without a doubt that they had found their new home.

There were vacant houses left for the taking, as well as a few barns and sheds that had been converted into living space. A clearing nearby served as a new Gathering Place, with a freshly dug fire-pit as its focal point. They had access to a nearby river as well that provided them with both drinking water and fresh fish to eat. In the months they had been situated here, the Residents had also cleared enough land to start a small Plot of crops to supplement their hunting and fishing Expeditions.

But perhaps the most important aspect of the Sanctuary was the sense of permanency it gave the Residents. After being reduced to little more than nomads for so many months, having a place to call their own again came as a relief. And living in an actual town rather than a Warehouse made them feel human again.

However, to the Voice, it was not a home. It was an ideal place to Survive, easily defendable with plenty of Resources, but to the man behind the Voice, all that meant little. He cared for the Residents and did what was best for them, but there was always something missing. No. Not something. Some_one_.

Ziva.

It had been almost two years since the Voice had last seen her. Almost two years since the Shadow had disappeared without a trace. The only evidence that she had ever been in his life at all were the hushed tales whispered around the fire, a tattered black shirt that never left the now-toddling Natalia's small fist, and a worn prescription slip that bore her last words.

The charcoal letters had long worn away, but the Voice did not need them anymore. He had memorized the words, imprinted them forever into his mind, the first time he had read them. But he kept the paper with him anyway, in some subconscious, desperate attempt to hang onto one last part of her.

Gibbs had long ago accepted the fact that his wife was dead. The first few months had been hopeful, but when six months passed, it was obvious that Ziva had given her life to protect the Residents. No one said it aloud—there was no need. It was a matter of simple logic. If she had survived the Encounter with the Bloods, she would have caught up with them in a few months, if that. The fact she hadn't meant that she had been unable to escape the Black Blood Gang. And anyone who had heard of the Gang knew exactly what happened if one was caught by the Bloods.

It had been with that realization that Gibbs almost completely disappeared. He still functioned as the Voice, still performed his role in leading the Residents, but most everything else that had defined him had slowly drifted away. Recently, it seemed the only thing keeping his blood flowing through his veins was Natalia.

Tali had grown quickly in the past two years, and learned to both walk and talk. And with her newly developed skills, she had become a certifiably unflappable bundle of energy. With curly brown hair and big blue eyes, she was the sweetheart of the Sanctuary. She was all smiles and giggles, innocent and full of wonder.

Abby had followed through on her role as the toddler's caregiver, though she always remained Auntie Abby—never her mother. The scientist chased after Tali when she wandered off on her own, and made sure she was fed and clothed whenever the Voice was too busy to do so himself. But no matter what the situation, the Voice made certain to see Tali every morning, noon, and night. He refused to let his duties keep him from spending time with his daughter. Oftentimes he would go about his day with Tali perched on his hip, carrying her as he delegated tasks and talked logistics.

The smiling little girl was always only too happy to tag along with him. She hardly ever fussed, a surprising trait once she hit her terrible twos. But there was always one thing that was sure to send the small girl into an ear-splitting squall, a peeve of sorts that had presented itself about two months after that Evacuation. That had been when Abby had finally taken it upon herself to wash Ziva's shirt.

It had become grievously grimy, as it was the same shirt that had comforted Tali when Ziva had first set out on the ill-fated Hospital run. The baby had not let go of it once in the whole two months she'd had it, and as a result, it probably would have been more prudent to simply burn the thing, so dirty it had become. But the child's attachment to the garment—and the woman it belonged to—struck a chord in both Abby and Gibbs, and they knew they couldn't destroy it.

The shirt still traveled wherever Tali did, just as other children would drag around their favorite blankets or stuffed animals. And if anyone tried to make her part with it, even if only to wash it, she protested with all the breath in her deceptively tiny body.

Tali was not the only one still feeling the loss of Ziva. Sergei had taken the Shadow's absence hard, and had largely cut himself off from the other Residents. He lived on the edge of the town, close to the Woods, and refused to interact on a personal level with anyone other than the Voice and Tali. The respect and devotion the Russian had once held for Ziva had shifted onto Gibbs, and the large man had become a trusted advisor as a result, as well as assuming the Shadow's role as head of the Guard.

On top of that, he went out of his way to dote on Tali. He brought her sweet berries and nuts he found in the woods, and willingly became her personal jungle gym as she took advantage of his height and bulk to crawl and jump all over him. He even permitted— and enjoyed, the Voice suspected—the affectionate pet name Tali had given him. She was unable to pronounce his given name, so she had made one up for him, and he accepted it without protest, regardless of how embarrassing he might have found it.

The Voice almost grinned as he recalled the Russian's expression the first time Tali had used her pet name. He could almost see it in the flames as he gazed into the fire—shocked eyes that quickly shifted to twinkling warmth as his thin lips spread into a smile. The face could have been described as goofy, but— the Voice wasn't really sure what goofy looked like anymore.

And with that thought, he was back to staring listlessly into the fire.

The clearing—their new Gathering Place—was a peaceful place when there was no meeting to manage. It was removed enough from the town that not many Residents went there unbidden, and it was often awash with moonlight. It was quiet, and solitary.

_Well_, the Voice thought as the soft sound of someone approaching whispered over the grass, _maybe not solitary enough_.

"Gibbs."

The Voice glanced up at the owner of the heavy accent. He took in Sergei's tall form, which had been deliberately dirtied by mud and twigs. The Russian had been leading a Patrol, the Voice remembered. He was the best one for it, as he had adapted well to the forest environment. Sergei had even trained most of the other Guards to the point where they were virtually invisible amongst the trees. Anyone who did see them would never guess that they hadn't lived in the forest their entire lives, let alone that barely two years ago they had been living in a concrete jungle.

"Yeah, Sergei," the Voice said, prompted the Russian to continue.

"We picked up Rovers in the Northern Woods," Sergei reported, his voice a low rumble in the dark. "They expressed interest in meeting with our leader."

The Voice sighed. "Bring 'em here."

Sergei gave a bird call—Dove, for the all-clear—and a small band of ragged survivors emerged from the Woods bordering the clearing, flanked by the rest of Sergei's Patrol.

It was no longer a surprise for Strays or Rovers to come seeking shelter. It was not exactly common either, but word had begun to spread about Sanctuary. Rovers—groups of Survivors too small to be called Gangs—were less likely to stay long-term, but they were often the ones who told other Survivors they ran into where they could find a safe haven. They were careful though, aware of the risk involved if too many hungry and greedy Survivors—or Gangs—learned of Sanctuary.

Every so often a Patrol would locate the Strays as they stumbled through the dense forest, and these Rovers were no different. Gibbs stood as they approached, silently appraising them. There were men and women in the group, but no children. With six to their number, they were all grungy and foul-smelling, a sure sign that they had been traveling for some time. At the Warehouse, they would have fit right in appearance-wise, but here at the Sanctuary personal hygiene had enjoyed a comeback.

Once the Rovers came to a stop in front of him, the Voice folded his arms over his chest.

"Who am I talking to?" he asked. Since these were Rovers, they had a chain of command, and it was the Voice's prerogative to speak to their leader.

"Me."

The answering syllable was gruff and raspy, definitely male, and yet hauntingly familiar. The short man who stepped to the foreground had grey hair and stooped shoulders, with a frame that had once might have been better suited in a sport jacket rather than the tattered hooded sweatshirt he wore now. But there was swagger to his gait that Gibbs almost recognized. The Rover's face came into the firelight, revealing a full beard on his jaw that had only the faintest hints of color to among the grey.

Twinkling eyes glinted in the firelight, and something inside Gibbs clicked home.

"_Tobias?_"


	9. The Introduction

"_Tobias?"_

Heavy brows furrowed back at the Voice in consternation.

"Jethro?" A grin somehow split the former FBI agent's grizzled features. Then Fornell's eyes gave an exaggerated roll. "Jesus Christ, I should've known you'd be behind an Op like this…"

"An Op like _what_ exactly, Fornell?" Gibbs returned with a smirk. His arm extended, and then he was clasping hands with his old friend.

The same relief Gibbs felt at seeing the man alive seemed to be reflected back at him in Fornell's eyes as he responded. "Oh you know, some idiot sets up a safe place for anyone who can pull their own weight, and then lets more idiots spread the news around like a bunch of gossiping schoolgirls. Has Gibbs written all over it."

Gibbs chuckled. "Damn, it's good to see you, Tobias. Didn't think an old man like you would have Survived the Incident."

"You're one to talk," Fornell retorted good-naturedly. "You might smell like a petunia, but you're not exactly the young bud you used to be yourself."

The two men regarded each other for a long moment as the Guard and the other Rovers watched on in surprise. It was not every day a Survivor ran into someone they knew from before the Incident, and it was even less common for pre-existing relationships to have any effect on a Survivor's sense of self-preservation. Old friends would just as soon kill you in your sleep and steal any Resources you had as they were to shake your hand. But these two men… they were different.

Finally, Fornell's expression grew serious. "Well, regardless of what hare-brained scheme you have going here, we've come to try and be a part of it," he grumbled. "We can't keep on like we were, running from place to place as the Gangs came and went. We heard this was the place to do it." Weary eyes glanced at Gibbs. "You got room for a few more?"

Gibbs smirked, shifting heavily on his feet as he looked at the sorry band of Rovers. They were pale, especially in the moonlight, with sunken eyes and trembling shoulders. One woman looked almost ready to pass out from exhaustion, as her eyes drifted shut every so often, making her sway dangerously on the spot.

"Yeah," Gibbs said with an arch of his eyebrows. "I think we can find you a place to bunk down."

Fornell grinned. "Yeah?"

"Uh huh. And regretting it already."

"Just like old times, huh?"

Gibbs shook his head with a smile. Then, he folded his arms over his chest as he got down to business. "Here's the SOP. Probies get a three day Grace. You rest, get some food, see the way things work here. After the three days are up, you make a decision. Either go on your way, or become part of the system. You decide to leave, you'll get an escort to the Border. You stay, you get worked into the Rotations and assume assigned duties. By staying you agree to follow the rules and honor the system, including the Chain of Command. You don't abide by either, you get a first-class ticket out of here."

Fornell nodded. "Sounds reasonable." He looked back at the rest of the Rovers, who all nodded in relief.

"All right," Gibbs said. "We'll keep you all together for the Grace Period in some temporary housing. If stay, you'll be placed where we have room." He began to lead them away from the fire and towards the hushed town.

It was now late enough that more than a few Residents were asleep, but the Voice knew that the people he would need to help him get the Probies settled, namely the other Council members, would still be awake. The Voice's assumption was proven correct when a tall form appeared from the shadows, hand-in-hand with a small familiar firecracker.

"Daddy!" Natalia shouted happily, breaking free from Abby to come pelting at Gibbs full-throttle. The Shirt was clasped tightly in her little fist. "DaddyDaddyDaddy!" Her arms extended as she neared, and Gibbs swung her up in the air with a grunt of exertion.

"Unh! Geez, princess, what did you eat today?" Gibbs asked playfully, making Tali giggle in delight. "Must have been a boatload of sugar, huh?" It wouldn't matter that the toddler didn't know what sugar was. It was joke he made often, just to make her smile. "Because it is _way_ past your bedtime, little lady."

"Wanted to see you, Daddy!" Tali exclaimed, throwing her arms around Gibbs' neck. "You were takin' too long, so we came and found you!"

Gibbs shot a look at Abby, who nodded in affirmation. Time must have slipped away from him, again. But luckily for him, both Abby and Tali never let _him_ slip away. They always sought him out, if he was late.

"Well, I suppose that's okay then," Gibbs said, kissing her cheek. "How do you feel about staying up a little bit later?"

Tali's blue eyes widened. "Really? Can I?"

"I still have some things I need to take care of. It'll only take a few minutes, so you can stay up until I come to tuck you in, okay?"

"Okay!" came the enthusiastic response. Then she was wriggling out of his arms, and running back to Abby, who had stepped forward to take her hand.

"Thanks, Abs," Gibbs said softly. A grin was sent in his direction, but quickly disappeared as she noticed the Rovers.

She stepped closer to speak softly to the Voice.

"Gibbs, one of the Rovers is staring at me. He seems kind of shifty. Are you sure they're trustworthy?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," the Voice responded with a grin.

"Oh, well… Okay, then. It's just that he's totally creeping me out—" Gibbs watched her brow furrow as she peered at the Rover in question. Then they rose in delight as recognition hit. "Agent Fornell?!"

"Miss Sciuto," the former FBI agent returned, the grin in his voice made invisible by his think beard.

"You Survived!"

"Surprised?"

Abby paused for a moment. "No, actually. I guess not. It makes sense—" She was cut off by Tali, who started pulling forcefully on her hand, eager to get moving again now that the scene had completely lost her interest. "Okay, okay!" Abby told the little girl. "I'm coming!"

"Let's go, Auntie Abby! Daddy said we only had a few minutes, and you're wasting it!" The two girls began to move back to where they had come. "Auntie Abby! Can we do the arrow cards?"

"Sure, sweetheart," Abby agreed gamely. The Tarot Cards Abby had once put so much stock in before the Incident no longer held so much sway in the former Goth's life, but the woman's enthusiasm for them seemed to have transferred to Tali. When the stack of cards had been found three months ago, the little girl had been instantly fascinated by them as Abby dealt and interpreted them.

Gibbs watched the two girls go, and as soon as they were out of sight, he turned to see Fornell staring at him.

"What?"

"Cute kid," Fornell remarked simply. "Yours?"

"For all intents and purposes." Gibbs wanted to ask after the man's own daughter, Emily, but he knew better than to inquire outright. The Voice would have noticed the girl among the Rovers, and she had not been among them. And if she weren't with her father, then odds were—

"Emily and her mother were in California visiting family when the Incident went down," Fornell supplied, seeing the question in Gibbs' gaze. "Haven't heard from either one of them since. Tried going West just after It happened, but got stopped at the Blockade."

There was a pain in the man's voice, but all things considered, Fornell had more than most could claim by now. It was uncertain whether or not the Incident even made it to the regions of the country West of the Mississippi. And if it had, it was possible those on the West Coast had managed o either escape the country or prepare for the fallout. Fornell could still hope that his family was alive, and that was more than what so many other Survivors had to their names, when so many had personally witnessed the deaths of their loved ones. But Gibbs nodded without responding. It was not his place to pity or reassure, but if he bothered to give it much thought, he might have realized that he simply didn't _want_ to offer any condolences.

Gibbs began to move again, leading the group towards the converted barn that had been set aside for the sole purpose of housing Probies. It contained only the barest of necessities, but it did have an intact roof and it was warm.

When they were a few yards from the structure, Gibbs turned to look back at Sergei, who was following at a respectful distance.

"Get DiNozzo to bring six hot Rations over here," the Voice instructed. Glancing at the Rovers, he switched to Russian. "_And choose two Guards to stand watch here tonight." _

The last time Rovers had overheard that they would be Guarded, they had thrown a fit, shouting indignantly at the thought of it. The Voice doubted these Rovers would do the same, but with half of Sanctuary asleep, he wasn't taking any chances. He would get them in the barn before letting them know what was what.

Sergei nodded, and swiftly disappeared in the night towards the Town.

"DiNutso made it too?" Fornell exclaimed gruffly. "Jesus, Jethro, is all of your crack team here?"

The Voice stiffened, a familiar pang of hurt lancing in his chest as his mind immediately went to the one member of Team Gibbs who had _not_ made it to the Sanctuary. But he brushed the sensation off, just as he did the off-hand remark. And to his credit, Fornell didn't ask again.

The Voice pushed open the hinged door to the barn himself, allowing the Rovers to enter unhindered. As soon as they felt the cozy warmth of the barn's interior, each and every one of them sighed in relief.

"There's blankets and mattresses in the far stall. Use 'em if you want, or sack out in the hay." His tone was hard. "You don't leave this Barn until sunup, when the other Residents get to work. Two Guards will be posted outside; talk to them if you need anything. Food is on the way. You'll get a chance to clean up tomorrow." He surveyed them for a moment more, and then began to shut the door. He was halted by Fornell's voice speaking up.

"Gibbs—"

The Voice looked at his old friend, and found Fornell's expression a mixture of exhaustion, relief, pity—and above all else, gratitude. It was obvious the man wanted to thank Gibbs, but not even years of scavenging in the wild could erase the man's pride. It was enough that Fornell had asked for help in the first place, let alone offer thanks.

But the Voice nodded anyways; he didn't need his old friend to thank him. Pushing the doors closed, he signaled to the two Guards to come and stand post. They obeyed without hesitation, as such duty was by now all too familiar. As soon as they were in position, the Voice turned back towards the rest of the Town.

A small smile curled his lips as he made his way closer to the House, the largest one in Town. It was the one the other Residents had insisted he and the rest of the Council take, as a show of both respect and gratitude for helping them all find Sanctuary in the first place. There were five bedrooms in all, along with two sitting rooms, a kitchen, an attic, and a cellar. The cellar had been relegated to long-term food storage for the entire town, along with whatever firearm inventory they possessed. The attic had been converted into a space for Tali to play in safely, though the toddler only ever used it when it was too cold or rainy to play outside. The kitchen went widely unused, with no electricity and no running water. The bathrooms shared a similar fate.

Gibbs and Tali had their own room to share, with two beds—one big for Gibbs, a smaller one for Tali— as well as a wingback chair and a chest of drawers. Next door was McGee and Abby, though their room only needed one bed—the two had been Married for years now. Both Ducky and Palmer each had their own rooms, smaller than the others. They didn't need any extra space, as neither Medical Examiner had a partner or spouse.

Palmer had never truly gotten over the death of Michelle Lee, despite Ducky's efforts to get the younger man to socialize more with other female Residents. And when Ziva—the only one who had managed to help Palmer heal immediately after the Incident—never returned, Jimmy had retreated into himself. He was much like the Voice, with all capabilities still intact, only lacking the desire to use them socially. He helped Ducky with injuries and illness, and he pulled his weight with general duties as well. But he kept to himself most of the time, only really having conversations with Doctor Mallard.

Tony, on the other hand, had adjusted well to post-Incident life. He was more controlled than he once was, more mature. He had settled down with a Resident a year and a half ago. Rosie was young and blonde with plenty of fire, and had absolutely no qualms about putting Tony in his place if he ever reverted to his old ways. She put up with the occasional movie reference, and was eternally smiling, which was a safe counter to Tony's occasionally melancholy mood.

Every so often, seeing the two of them interact would remind Gibbs of an easier time—now a lifetime ago—when the worst they had to worry about was solving a case. He'd close his eyes and see a brightly lit squad room, with computer keys clacking away across the bullpen from his desk, and the light conversation between the two agents to his right. There'd be a not-so-subtle jibe from Tony, and then his partner would throw a threat his way in retaliation. And in the few moments of quiet that always followed, Gibbs would look to his right, and Ziva was there, shooting him a sly smile.

But when Gibbs opened his eyes again, the smile always belonged to a tall blonde, and it was never for him. The world would be a little bit darker, and his heart would be just a little bit heavier. Gibbs would retreat a little bit deeper, and if it weren't for the little splash of light that went by the name of Tali, he'd be a little bit closer to leaving everything behind.

But said splash of light was waiting for him now, and as he climbed the porch steps up to the house, he felt his spirits lift. He moved past the living rooms and to the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. He could hear soft movement coming from beyond the open door at the end of the hall. He peeked inside the room, and found Tali leaning heavily against Abby, tired blue eyes slamming shut. But they flew open as soon as she spotted him in the doorway.

"Daddy!"

Gibbs grinned and stepped into the room as Abby stood and pressed a kiss to Tali's hair, officially relinquishing possession of the toddler for the night. She gave Gibbs a wink as she passed, which he returned with a grateful grin. When he had closed the door after her, he turned back towards Tali, who was now kneeling in expectation of him.

"Come 'ere, Munchkin," Gibbs said, scooping the little girl up into his arms. She came without protest, snuggling into his chest. The Shirt in her hand brushed against his skin, making him grin. He brought her over to the smaller bed in the corner—the bed he had made himself, with her name carved into the headboard.

As soon as he released her, Tali burrowed under the covers until only her head was visible above the blanket. The black Shirt took its customary place next to her cheek, nearly brushing her nose. Gibbs reached out and ran a calloused hand over her curls, the motion causing Tali's eyes to drift shut again. Gibbs whispered a good night, but when he stood to leave, Tali cooed in protest.

"Story, Daddy," she requested plaintively.

Gibbs smiled in amusement, and sat down in the nearby easy chair. "You want me to get Uncle Tim?" As the unofficial storyteller, McGee knew to be on standby whenever bedtime rolled around.

Surprisingly, Tali shook her head. "No, Daddy. No fish-un." She still had trouble pronouncing the word Fiction, and now sleep was slurring her speech. Most kids preferred Fiction stories nowadays, with wizards and magic. Not Tali. "Memree," she declared.

Gibbs sighed. Though he doubted Tali truly understood the difference between Fiction and Memories, but his heart always twinged whenever the toddler asked for a Memory. It allowed Gibbs to feel things that he usually never did. Nostalgic ghosts of happiness, belonging, warmth… they all came rushing back when he told Tali his Memories.

Memories were tales that were told sparingly, pulled not from the ether of the imagination, but from the past. They were stories that were from before the Incident, of a world that for they knew no longer existed. To the children who had no Memories of their own, the stories about people who rode buses and trains to tall buildings where they sat at a table all day staring at glass screens and talking into pieces of plastic and computer chips were no less fantastical than the legends of Dragons and Fairies.

But every child knew there was a distinction between Fiction and Memories, even if they didn't understand it. Because Fiction did not bring tears to the eyes of older Residents, or make everyone in the vicinity fall still, straining to hear as well. Memories made grownups sad. Fiction didn't.

Gibbs liked telling Tali Memories, and loved when she requested them specifically. He always made sure to share ones that included Ziva. He avoided telling Tali the connection between Ziva and the black Shirt, unwilling to brave the questions of why Ziva was no longer there, or where she had gone. It was simply easier to have Ziva remain a character in the Memories, beloved yet detached.

Some day, when Tali was old enough to understand, Gibbs would tell her who her mother was, and the sacrifices Ziva had made for her. There would be a time where Tali might want to what her mother looked like, to know what she sounded like. She would never truly know those things, no matter how much Gibbs told her. But she would know _who_ her mother was.

Not Margaret. Gibbs would tell Tali how Margaret died in that fight on the Docks, but since Gibbs knew little else about the woman, it would be Ziva, Tali's savior, who would be remembered. It would be Ziva, the assassin turned agent turned Survivor turned Wife turned Mother, who would hold a special place in the Memories of the Sanctuary and the Residents who migrated from the Warehouse.

And in the second-generation Memories of one blue-eyed brown-haired little girl.

Gibbs settled back in his chair, searching the past for an appropriate story to share. She had heard most of the lighter ones already—he refused to share those that were gruesome or sad. There was already too much of those in the child's life without adding the past to it.

But then he grinned, his mind coming to rest on one that was new, yet gentle enough for Tali to fall asleep during the telling if she needed to. After all, it was just a simple little Memory, insignificant in the large scheme of things, one that had taken place on a cool morning in late October. But Tali had heard this one dozens of times before—one of her favorites. It was a story of frozen men and greedy daughters, of moving mechanical heads and a single young Probie who hated being called Probie.

It was a shame Tali was so tired. She was asleep before Gibbs got to her favorite part—where a certain badgering partner fell victim to vengeful blue teeth.


	10. The Discovery

The next morning dawned bright and beautiful. Gibbs was awake to watch the sunrise, just as he was every day, thanks to Tali's permanent internal clock that always seemed to know when sunrise would be. Not even her late night before was enough keep her in bed longer. But Gibbs didn't really mind—how could he, when it was Tali's zest for life that made it easier for _him_ to get up?

They followed their morning routine—get dressed in their clothes from yesterday, breakfast, then Tali went off to Auntie Abby while Gibbs went to oversee the other Residents. There were a myriad of tasks to accomplish, and the earlier they got done, the better. By now, all the Residents knew what to do, and they were good about getting it done. But he needed to be visible.

As the Voice, worked alongside the other Residents, not part of a specific task, but wherever he was needed. That was only when there weren't any Probies though. On the first day of Grace, it was Gibbs' job to give the official tour. Everything was shown to them except for the Resources. They would be told they were present, but specific locations were denied them until they made the choice to stay. It was for security purposes—it would be tempting for Rovers or Strays to try a steal some food or weapons when they went on their way.

But Fornell and his Rovers got to see Sanctuary in full swing, in the light of day. The Voice explained how Duties were assigned and rotated, for those that were not permanent. Guards and Angels were permanent, though Duty nights were rotated amongst three teams. That schedule was determined by Sergei, by whose decree the three teams themselves were permanent. It bred trust between the members of each team, and helped with unit cohesion. The Voice approved of the organization of the Patrols, and would have done the same had it been up to him. The Guards who were off-duty for any given night would be on Hunting duties during the day.

Duties for Maintenance around the Sanctuary were rotated weekly. Gathering wood, Planting, Fishing, Mending, and KP were all reassigned on Sunday mornings. They were tasks that did not need any particular skill, and thus all of the Residents could participate, so they did. Meals were prepared and served by those on KP, and then after they ate they also did Cleanup. The Sanctuary ate as a group, sometimes sitting around a fire, other times sitting at tables fashioned by Menders. The Residents would talk, even joke, amongst themselves as they ate, and to anyone watching, they would seem like a single, large family.

Fornell and his group took it all in silently, and the Voice could tell they were both amazed and impressed. Most Probies hadn't seen this level of camaraderie since before the Incident. Even the Voice had been surprised at how well the Residents got along, especially when their numbers continued to grow. But there were few instances of infighting, and all in all life within Sanctuary was peaceful. They lived and worked harmoniously, and it was that fact that usually persuaded Strays and Rovers to stay.

After the tour had been given, the Voice allowed the Rovers do some exploring on their own. The Residents knew to keep an eye on Probies on Grace. If they poked around where they weren't meant to, a Resident would gently but firmly guide them away. The only Rover who did not immediately wander off was Fornell, which the Voice had anticipated.

"You got quite a setup here," Fornell commented. The Voice grunted in acknowledgement. The former FBI agent shoved is hands into the pocket of his ragged hooded sweatshirt. "Look, Jethro, all my people… they're good. Decent people. They deserve to have someplace like this."

"I'm sure," the Voice replied wryly. "If they support the system, the system supports them. Simple. No need to persuade me to not be a bastard."

When Fornell didn't respond, the Voice softened. "How long you been Roving?"

"About thirteen months. After I turned back at the Border, I went back to DC."

"Not much there at that point," the Voice remarked.

Fornell smirked. "You're telling me. When I left it had been pure chaos. When I went back, it was like a ghost town. Never thought I'd see the day." He hesitated for a moment, then continued. "How did you manage to keep all your people alive?"

The Voice bristled, and for a long moment, he said nothing. But then, he softened slightly, and sighed.

"I didn't, Tobias."

Fornell muttered a _shit_ under his breath. "I didn't—" the Voice waved him off, effectively silencing him. But when he didn't say anything himself, Fornell continued a single word. "Who?"

A long moment passed before Gibbs could find the voice to answer. "Ziva."

"Really?" The surprise in his voice could not be disguised. "Damn. Of all the people—wouldn't have expected her… How did it happen?" _And for the love of God_, Fornell added silently, _do not say illness_. The woman deserved a better death than that. Than wasting away from a simple cold that had turned absurdly devastating in the unsanitary world the Incident created.

"Bloods."

_Mary Mother of God_. Fornell's heart instinctively jumped to his throat at the uttering of that dreaded word. Within days of returning to DC he had become well aware of who the Black Blood Gang was. Bloodthirsty, brutal, and unstoppable were only a few ways they had been described to him, and he had discovered himself a few days later that those had been the nicer ways to describe the Gang.

"Jesus, Jethro…" If Fornell'd had a choice, he might've preferred illness.

"She went to the Georgetown Hospital for supplies," the Voice told him, his tone hard. "She never made it back."

Fornell snorted derisively, the shock and bitterness of the news impeding his ability to censor his more inappropriate reactions. "Shit…of course she didn't make it back! That hospital is smack in the middle of Blood territory! What the hell kind of insanity made her think to go there? Everybody knows the Bloods are there! Only an idiot would—"

Gibbs whirled on him. "What do you mean everyone knows they're there?"

"That area's all Blood, Jethro! You can't tell me you didn't know that."

Gibbs paused. "They settled?" Something within him flared when Fornell nodded. "They were mobile. They had just moved into the area when we left—we didn't even know for sure if they were still there."

"I don't know what to tell you, Jethro. They've been there for at least the past eighteen months. If what you tell me is true, then they've probably been there since you skipped town. Everyone knows to stick to the edges of the city, or else they'll start tracking you. They have half of DC by now."

"What else do you know?"

Fornell hesitated, momentarily taken aback by the sudden hunger in his old friend's eyes. "What's there to tell? They're fuckin' insane, always looking for violence. And God help you if you get caught by them, because then you're never seen again."

"How do they stay together, Tobias? How the hell do they not turn on themselves? When everyone knows to scatter if they even hear whispers of them, then how the hell do they not spread out like a goddamn plague and go to town on their own?"

Fornell's brow furrowed. "Before I headed west again, there were rumors that some guy managed to get in and out of Blood territory. It was a freak chance, and he lost his leg in the meantime, but he says that he saw a bunch of Bloods conferring, like a unit trying to figure out what to do next. He overheard them saying something about reporting to someone higher up. Someone who organizes all of it, someone _everyone_ reported to."

"They have a leader."

"Yeah, someone who makes even the other Bloods respect him."

"Meaning he's the worst of them all," Gibbs interpreted.

Fornell nodded. "Yeah. That's what the Whispers say." He sighed. "I don't know if it's true—"

"Oh, it's true," Gibbs interrupted. He straightened slightly. "It's the only possibility that makes sense." He paced a short distance away, a calloused hand running over his jaw. Then, a moment later, he paced back until he was dangerously close to Fornell, close enough that he could speak low enough that only the former agent could hear him.

He stared intensely into Fornell's eyes, letting his friend know exactly how serious he was.

"If you had a map, would you be able to tell me _exactly_ where they are?"

Fornell looked back with equal intensity. "I could tell you without the damn map."

Gibbs regarded him for a moment more, then nodded solemnly. He began to walk away, but something in his gaze struck Fornell as familiar.

"You aren't thinking of doing something stupid, are you Jethro?" he called after the Voice, his gruff words bordering between amused and wary.

The Voice paused, then turned back to look at him.

"Don't know about stupid," came the too-calm reply, "but I'm definitely thinking of something."

* * *

A/N: _Okay, here's new chapter. The next one is already in the works. But because this one is somewhat short, I am including a tidbit. Go to my profile page, where there will be a link to a video on youtube. Watch it, and keep a look out for someone familiar. Don't ask me how I found it, but I did, and I freaked, and decided to share. It's not my video, I do not claim credit. _


	11. The Promise

Later that afternoon, Abby found Gibbs standing on the roof of the House.

The Widow's Walk was a unique feature of the House that they'd found several weeks after moving in. They usually kept it locked so that Tali could not find her way up there, but every so often, when Gibbs needed a quiet place to think during the day, that was where he went.

She joined him as soon as she spotted his silhouette against the late afternoon sun. He didn't say anything as she climbed onto the balconied rooftop, but he didn't move away from her either, which she took as a good sign. When she leaned against the same rail he was, and gazed out at the Residents doing their Tasks, Abby made the first move.

"Fornell told me what you guys talked about this morning."

Gibbs said nothing.

"He also told me what you asked him." She turned to look at him directly. "There's only one reason you would ask him something like that, Gibbs."

"Yeah?" There was something in Gibbs' tone that Abby did not like. It told her that he was indeed thinking what she assumed he'd been thinking, and his monosyllabic reply challenged her to try and talk him out of it.

"No. No way, Gibbs. Don't—"

"Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do, Abs." Gibbs' voice was razor sharp. "Something needs to change, and this is the best way to do it."

"That load of bull is not going to fly with me, Gibbs," Abby returned, not budging an inch. "You think going into the heart of Blood territory to kill their damn boss and getting yourself killed in the process is the best way to help us? No way. Let someone else take the suicide mission."

"If you know someone better qualified, point 'em out."

"Sergei, for one. He would jump at the chance to get back at—" She paused, realization flooding her. "That's what this is about, isn't it? You want to hit back at them for what they did to—"

"Don't say it, Abs."

"Say what, Gibbs? What we've known for years now? She's gone, Gibbs. And you know that I didn't want to accept it either, but she would have shown up by now if she were alive to do so. That's the truth, no matter how much we don't like it."

"It shouldn't have been her."

Gibbs' voice was so tender it nearly broke Abby's heart. She knew he had been hurting, ever since he started the Evacuation. He probably blamed himself for what happened, for not finding another way. But Abby had come to accept that there had been no other way.

When she replied, her tone had softened.

"No, it shouldn't have. But it was, Gibbs. And doing this is not going to bring her back. She's _dead_."

Gibbs' face hardened. "But someone needs to answer for it."

"Why does it have to be you? Because the Residents do not need to lose another leader, Gibbs. They don't. And if you do this, it _will_ be you who answers in the end. No one has ever escaped them, Gibbs, _no one_. You might succeed in killing whoever leads the Bloods, but you'll die too."

"The Residents are strong. They'll manage. You'll manage."

"Yeah, maybe," Abby replied sarcastically. "But what about Tali, huh? What about her? She's already lost three of her parents. You want to make her lose another? If you don't want to stay for me or the Residents, fine. But stay for Tali. She loves you. And you love her."

"I do," he agreed. "But I want her to have the peace she has here to last forever. It won't if I don't do something to stop the Bloods."

"Enough of that horse crap, Gibbs. Now you're just insulting me. The noble streak was real great and everything when we were safe at the Navy Yard, but things are different now, and you're making up excuses to try and justify that you want to go die and leave Tali all alone—"

Her growing hysteria was halted by Gibbs' arms wrapping around her, pulling her close against him. There was no longer any wash of bourbon or sawdust or coffee to his person, only fresh scent of pine that pervaded every other corner and Resident of Sanctuary. But the warmth was all Gibbs, and it soothed her against her will.

"I have to do this, Abby," he whispered in her ear. "I have to." There was a moment where he tried to keep his voice steady, but when he spoke Abby could hear the sadness and heartbreak as clearly as if he were sobbing. "For her."

Abby wanted to protest, to tell him none of that mattered anymore. That the only thing that mattered was Tali and Sanctuary. But she couldn't. She couldn't, because she could still feel her own pain over the death of her best friend, the best friend she had slowly accepted and slowly come to believe was invincible. It had been a comfort that her once-frightening skills were so prolific, because it meant that she was that much more unlikely to end up like Kate.

But that had all changed, hadn't it? Ziva had died too, even more horribly than Kate had. At least Kate had had the benefit of not knowing her death was coming. She never saw the bullet, never knew who was behind it. She died in an instant, and after doing the research, Abby had decided that Kate hadn't even felt any pain. Ziva hadn't had that blessing. She'd known exactly what would happen when she sent Sergei away.

And Abby had been there that night in the Tunnels too. She'd seen her Tentmate at the time get hacked to pieces, while five feet away a man she'd met the day before was gutted like a fish before being burned alive. She still had nightmares about them, still heard their screams. Only now, they often turned into Ziva's screams, and she would wake to echoes of her best friend crying out in agony. And the worst part of it all was that she still felt anger burn in her heart at the thought of the bastards who had done that to Ziva. That they had killed one the best people in Abby's life without having to pay for it, and that they were still alive to hurt more people.

Had the Incident never happened, and someone murdered Ziva, then Gibbs would have immediately hunted them down and killed them with his bare hands. Abby would have been there also, to help him properly dispose of the evidence. But that couldn't happen here. Not now. Now all they could do was run and hide.

It angered her, and she hated that it did. She hated that she was too scared to even think about doing something about the Bloods. And above all, she hated that she hated them.

"Okay," she whispered finally. Gibbs sighed softly against her, his relief evident. "I understand. But promise me you aren't _trying_ to kill yourself. Promise me that you'll at least try to come back to us. To Tali." She felt tears leak from the corners of her eyes. "_Promise me_."

Gibbs hugged her tighter, and this time she returned the gesture, wrapping her arms around him. His hand came up to smooth her hair, as he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"I promise."


	12. The Mission

It was another two days before Gibbs was finally on the road that would take him back to DC. By his estimation, it would take about five days to get to Black Blood territory. He'd planned appropriately for the trip, with some extra clothes, rations and, of course, weapons. He had tucked a knife into his belt, and slung a rifle over his shoulder, as well as a box of shells for the occasion. At Abby's insistence, he also carried some bandages and pain medication in the book bag on his back.

The scientist had claimed that if he had them, then he had no reason to let any little injury keep him from coming home. The logic was flawed, but Gibbs refused to point it out to her. It made her feel better about the whole thing, and he would not be the one to deny her that small comfort.

It also comforted Abby to know that Gibbs was not alone in his endeavors, as he had originally intended. As soon as Gibbs had told the Residents what was going to happen, Sergei had immediately informed the Voice that he would going too. Gibbs had briefly considered trying to dissuade the large Russian, both out of his desire to go alone and to leave Tali a Protector in his stead. But as soon as he had looked into Sergei's eyes, he had been unable to do anything but nod.

He recognized the Russian's need as well as he knew his own. Sergei blamed himself for what happened to Ziva, and this was the one way the man could even hope to try and atone. Gibbs understood it, and was compelled to honor it. And so Sergei was now plodding along the road next to him, with a length of chain around his waist, handgun under his shoulder, and a metal bat loaded with rocks resting on his shoulders. Gibbs suspected he had a hidden knife or two as well.

But surprise of surprises, there was one more to their number. Fornell had volunteered to act as their Guide, and he now paced along behind the two Residents, with his own arsenal of weapons at his disposal. Gibbs grinned to himself as he remembered Fornell's delighted smile when the former FBI agent felt the familiar cool metal of the gun in his hand for the first time in years.

Their plan was both definite and vague. All three men knew exactly what it was they had set out to do—kill the man behind the Bloods. But it was the way they would go about doing it that was up in the air. It would be hard to get through Blood territory without getting caught, and even more difficult to put themselves in a position to carry out their mission.

As they walked, they tried to give more form to their plan, but their exchanging of ideas was more for entertainment than anything else, for all the good it did. Passing around ideas helped pass the long days as they traveled closer to the city, but since they really had no way to know exactly what they were walking into they had no way to hone their ideas into anything practical.

When they reached the familiar outskirts of the quiet shell of DC, their banter died, all senses going on high alert. Their weapons came out, ready for any sudden attack that might come their way. But for another day they didn't see a single soul besides themselves. Evidence of Bloods was everywhere, in the forms of Tags and remnants of cars and temporary shelters from early Survivors that had been torn to pieces.

Every so often they would run into old pools of blood, dried and caked on the rough pavement. It sent chills down Gibbs' spine, but they all pressed on with grim features, determined in their resolve. They refused to stop to think if one of those stains had been Ziva, if one of those stains on the pavement was all that remained of her.

The sun was setting by the time they got to the heart of the city, and returned to their former method of movement. The deeper into the city they, the more inhabited it became. Bloods came into sight, their loud raucous voices echoing along otherwise empty streets. Torches had been set up along major roads, and were lit as the sun sank deeper past the horizon.

Gibbs, Sergei, and Fornell all avoided the better lit roads, sticking to the shadows as they darted from cover to cover. To Gibbs and Sergei it came easily, having used the same tactics for so long before finally Evacuating. But Fornell had a harder time of it, his movements choppy and unnatural. But the Residents were patient and used the extra time Fornell's slower movements created to survey the city terrain.

As the number of Bloods became more numerous, their movement grew more dangerous. To Gibbs, seeing the Bloods move about in packs was reminiscent of seeing rowdy sailors on their first round of shore leave after a six month tour of the Pacific. They shouted and called to each other, slapping each other on the back in greeting as they ran into each other on the street.

The difference between the Bloods and excited sailors, though, was their appearance, and how they treated the world around them. They were tattooed and scarred, some even missing eyes or fingers. Some were shaved bald, with tattoos of snakes and tigers visible on their scalps. Others had severe Mohawks, or had shapes and symbols shaved into close-cropped hair. Chains draped from waists and pockets, and spiked bracers adorned their wrists. They all wore sturdy boots, some capped with spikes and/or steel toes.

The sight of them set Gibbs on edge, their familiar fearsome appearances striking a nerve, and bringing old memories perilously close to the surface. The smell of gasoline and smoke filled Gibbs' senses unbidden, as did terrified screams he knew now belonged to Ziva as well. But he watched them all the same, looking for anything that could be of use to them.

But there was nothing much to notice. The Bloods were seemingly functional amongst themselves, not plagued by the infighting he had expected. However, he soon realized that their thirst for chaos and destruction had been satisfied in other ways. Nothing within sight was left intact. The cars left in the street had been stripped and torched. Every single window had been shattered, the shards littering the streets and sidewalks. Wooden benches were smashed beyond repair, and trashcans had been overturned and dented almost past the point of recognition.

Gibbs found it difficult to reconcile this burned out husk of a city with the Nation's Capitol from his Memories, as they huddled behind Dumpsters waiting for the right times to dart into the open. That other city seemed almost like a dream now, so obscure it seemed in light of this new reality. But he shoved the Memories away forcefully as he suddenly noticed something about the Bloods behavior.

They seemed… jovial. They were excited for something, as if they were football fans getting ready for the Superbowl. And they were all heading in the same direction—deeper into the city. It struck Gibbs as both odd and ominous, but he recognized what it could mean. When he brought it to Sergei's attention, the Russian agreed.

If all the Bloods were converging on one location, odds were that their leader would be joining them.

So with silent nods, all three men agreed on their new course of action. They would follow the Bloods wherever they were going, locate the leader, follow the bastard to somewhere less crowded, and then put a bullet in his head.

Simple, and hopefully effective.

They moved behind straggling Bloods, carefully to not make any noise to alert them their presence. Their diligence paid off, and they managed to remain hidden until they reached the location in question. And the sight of it shocked all three men to the core, causing them to freeze at a thankfully safe distance.

It was football stadium, old and run-down. But it was lit.

Not by torches or flaming barrels, but with honest-to-God electricity. Stadium lights shone brighter than anything they had seen in years, blinding the three Residents for several moments as their eyes struggled to acclimate. Even from the hundred fifty yards they were at, they could hear the muffled, tinny thundering of dozens of loudspeakers.

There were cheers and hollers from the bleachers within, but Gibbs could hardly hear them over the roaring in his own ears as he was confronted with this blast from the past. Glancing at his compatriots, Gibbs could see shock on their features as well. It had been so long since they had seen electricity in use… and now they suddenly had a Memory staring them in the face.

But then they all came back into sharp awareness as a particularly loud round of shouts echoed through the vacant city. They glanced at each other, as if silently asking if they were all ready to do what they had traveled almost a week to do. As one, all three nodded, and swift as shadows they began to creep towards the stadium.

They waited until there were no more Bloods in sight before quietly bypassing the stadium entrance in favor of simply sneaking under the bleachers themselves. They moved invisibly around metal braces and supports, ignoring the thunderous stomping from above. As they got closer to the front of the bleachers, they could hear grunts and shouts of pain coming from the field.

And then, they were deep enough into the bleachers to peer through the spaces between bleachers and around booted feet to see what was holding everyone's attention. And what Gibbs found turned his stomach.

Not thirty feet from the fence separating the fans from the field, was a group of maybe ten ragged, half-naked men and women. All were armed, with makeshift spears, or with metal pipes or chains, and they were all desperately trying to attack another ragged man who was doing his best to fend them off with a spear.

The Attackers had circled the Defender, but by some grace of God he managed to dodge and block most of the frantic blows sent his way with jerky movements. Gibbs could see the raw panic in his features, and knew in an instant that he was operating under pure adrenaline. His skin was already marred by bright red bruises and blood that dripped from where the Attackers had managed to hit him. As Gibbs watched, he could see the Defender starting to slow, his exhaustion catching up with him. His defeat quickened exponentially as the Fight endured, since the more tired he became allowed more blows to land, which only hindered his movements more, perpetuating the cycle.

Finally, the Defender stumbled, much the audience's displeasure. There was a round of boos that echoed when the man fell, but then the cheers returned as the Attackers moved in for the kill. Their strikes were frenzied, erratic, and Gibbs was shocked to see the fearful, horrific expressions on their dirty faces as they succumbed to raw animal instinct. It was in that moment that Gibbs fully understood what was going on.

It was a post-apocalyptic gladiator ring. The fighters, both Attacker and Defender alike, were Prisoners. They were being forced to fight against one another, for sport. Their fear was more than enough evidence to prove it. The Bloods were watching them as the patricians once did in Ancient Rome. No doubt these Prisoners were facing certain death if they refused to entertain their captors.

Gibbs tore his eyes from the massacre in front of him—which was now swathed with copious amounts of blood, both on the brown patchy grass and on the Attackers' weapons—and discovered there were similar fights scattered across the football field. From his position Gibbs counted five other groups, all of equal number.

Where had they gotten so many Survivors? Something must have changed since the Residents had Evacuated. If they simply murdered everyone on sight like they used to, they wouldn't have had so many Survivors on hand. It didn't make sense. But—at the same time, it did.

_This_ was why the Bloods had ceased their expansion. This leader of theirs had recognized their insatiable thirst for violence, and had sated their hunger through this—these bloodgames. They were content here in DC because they could see the bloodshed on demand. And now Gibbs knew that the man he hunted was much more dangerous than he imagined. Because now his prey was not simply bloodthirsty and power-hungry—he was also smart.

Where was the son of a bitch? Gibbs thought silently to himself. There was no way the man wouldn't be here. Even if he wasn't as amused by these gladiator games as his fellow Bloods were, he would have to be visible in order to let his men know exactly who it was who was making the fights happen. He had be here, and he had to be prominent.

He leaned to his left, where Fornell stood just as shocked as he was, and spoke just loud enough for his old friend to hear him over the din from the stands.

"Keep your eyes peeled for the target," he said.

Fornell leaned towards him in response, his gaze not leaving the field. "Well, I think it's a safe bet to assume he's the guy with the mic being featured on the damn Jumbotron."

Gibbs' gaze immediately shot skyward, and sure enough, the world's biggest television was lit and working, streaming live from the stands. And on its giant screen Gibbs could see a Blood lounging on a gruesomely ornate throne, constructed of human bone and splashes of blood, with a mic hanging casually from his fingers. He was watching the fights with rapt interest, though his gaze was too steady to be partaking of all the fights taking place on the field. It was evident that there was only one that held his attention, though Gibbs couldn't say which, even if his brain hadn't completely frozen at the sight of the imposing figure.

The man was clad in a leather vest, which had been left open to reveal a chest tattooed with an emerald dragon spewing clouds of red-orange flame. Bare, muscled arms were also inked, though these were black, and simply jagged swirls of seemingly meaningless design. Leather pants sat low on his hips, and spiked boots protected his feet. His eyes were dark in their intensity, smoldering dangerously as he stared down at the blood-soaked field.

But under the ragged leather and the inked skin, Gibbs realized he recognized the monster on the devil's throne. He _knew_ the bastard who had terrified every Survivor in a 500 mile radius. The bastard who had enslaved God knew how many Survivors, forced them to fight.

And worst of all, he knew the son of a bitch who had murdered Ziva.

Because right there on the Jumbotron, for all of DC to see, was a Marine who had fallen farther than any man, Marine or not, could ever fall.

Because on the throne of blood and gore was none other than Corporal Damon Werth, USMC.

Dishonorably discharged.


	13. The Development

A/N: THIS CHAPTER IS RATED **M**!!! It is rated **Mature** for violence, language, and semi-explicit sexual undertones. It is also rather dark, even compared to the rest of this fic.

--IF YOU ARE NOT OLD ENOUGH TO READ MATURE CONTENT, OR YOU SIMPLY DO NOT LIKE MATURE CONTENT--

**DO NOT READ!!!!**

Gibbs felt his gut turn to stone.

In a single instant, his hopes for completing the Mission unscathed had dwindled down to none. Even completing the mission at all seemed an unlikely feat. This complicated matters exponentially, and Gibbs knew it.

The last time he had gone up against Werth, he'd been bowled over, and then tossed into a hospital wall. And that had been after both an escape from a psych ward and a near death experience, respectively. Now the ex-Corporal was completely healthy and had enough presence of mind to organize and control the most fearsome Gang on the East Coast. He was surrounded by hundreds of bloodthirsty men, who Gibbs was sure would not hesitate to kill him on sight.

Or, Gibbs corrected himself as he glanced once more at the field, he would be forced to fight other Survivors. By now he could see three other groups who had managed to defeat their Defenders. The Attackers had backed off, leaving the bloody broken carcasses of the Defenders sprawled on the patchy grass.

They stood huddled in their groups, their weapons discarded on the ground. More than a few were sobbing, trembling from the shock of what they had been forced to do. One woman from the first group had completely detached, her eyes glazed as she stared unblinkingly at the man she had helped slaughter.

Gibbs recognized her expression from his years in the field, with the young Marines who were too young to handle seeing their buddies blown up by an IED. He hoped to God she wouldn't be forced to fight again that night—she would not be lucid enough to defend herself, and would be nothing more than a lamb for the slaughter.

Bewilderingly, the cheers didn't die down as the fights drew to an end. Instead they grew even louder. Gibbs desperately attempted to peer down towards the opposite end of the field, where it seemed other fights still seemed to be going on, but it was impossible from where he stood. And for some reason, it was that side of the field that seemed to entertain the Bloods the most, and Gibbs was instantly curious as to what the draw was.

He nodded to his compatriots, motioning towards the other end of the field. Together they quietly moved down the field, carefully not to touch the metal beams that supported the bleachers above them. Gibbs still didn't know where Werth was in the stands, and if he was still as good as his file had once said he was, than even the slightest indication of their presence beneath the bleachers would spell their demise.

They were only about halfway down the field when the loudspeakers began blasting once more. For a moment it was nothing but screeching reverb, but then it was unmistakably the voice of Damon Werth echoing through the stadium, freezing Gibbs' blood.

"Defending Survivors," the chilling voice thundered above them, "move to center field."

Realizing his proximity to center field, Gibbs froze. Fornell and Sergei stopped as well, following his lead as he crept once more towards the front of the stands. The Bloods were all screaming and shouting in anticipation of what was to come. As soon as Gibbs was close enough to look onto the field, he could see six Survivors converging on the center of the field, not a single one of them unscathed.

Seeing that most of them were coming from the end of the field he had been moving towards, Gibbs glanced downfield to see the ground littered with bodies. In an instant he knew that these Defenders had won their matches, thereby slaying all ten of their opponents.

Of the six at center field, only one was female. One of the other five men was barely able to continue standing—blood dripped from a deep wound on his thigh, and trickled down from a gash just beyond his hairline. Two others seemed perfectly functional, despite minor injuries, but it was the final two men that startled Gibbs the most.

They were tattooed, with spiked hair and inked arms, topped off with identical malicious grins. Bloods. Serving penance, perhaps? Or maybe this was some sort of reward, being allowed to participate in the bloodshed. As all six Survivors formed a circle on the midline, they regarded the woman with a predatory appreciation. Then, they looked to the other male Survivors and nodded in some acknowledgement of what seemed to be a predetermined arrangement. Only two men nodded back—the Survivor with the leg wound was barely able to keep his eyes open.

Gibbs could see the tension in the woman's body, which was clad in what seemed to be a pair of ragged denim shorts, revealing thin legs that were scarred and bruised. She was barefoot, bloodied by the puddles she'd traversed in her short walk to center field. A flannel shirt insulated her upper body, but Gibbs could see it was askew, leaving one bony shoulder bare and revealing she wore a tank underneath it.

In the harsh light of the stadium, and from his position beneath the bleachers, Gibbs could only see that her hair was dark in color. The rest of her was obscured by the booted feet of the spectators. But even in looking at her back, her trembling form struck him as familiar. When the Blood Defenders nodded to the other men, her posture shifted ever so slightly, readying herself for the attack that was sure to come.

The Bloods had had the presence of mind to scavenge weapons from the fallen, and they both wielded pipes, chains, and knives. The wounded Survivor was using his bloody staff as a support for his sagging frame. What looked to be a filed length of steel rebar rested in the hands of one of the other men, while the last Survivor palmed a Louisville Slugger whose tip had been wrapped in razor wire.

The woman had two battered nightsticks, most likely pilfered by the Bloods from some abandoned police station. There was one in each hand, grasped tightly by fingers that looked pale in the stadium lighting.

"And now," Werth's voice thundered, jolting Gibbs from his observations and the strange feeling in his gut, "we decide who among the Defenders are the most worthy. This fight will separate the strong from the weak, and the victor will live to fight another day."

His words elicited cheers from the crowd, and the Bloods on the field soaked in the glory. For a few moments they strutted, shouting something unintelligible to the stands, which ate up the posturing like candy. The deafening roars grew louder for a moment, before suddenly falling silent as the Bloods on the field returned to their positions. Glancing up at the Jumbotron, Gibbs realized that Werth had lifted his hand, motioning for silence with a casual wave.

"Begin."

Gibbs refocused on the field just in time to see the first Blood draw a long, stiletto knife from his belt and lunged to his right, where the barely conscious Survivor was leaning on his staff. In a flash, the man's throat was slashed open, and blood poured down his front as he toppled like a ragdoll to the side.

As he had done so, the other men had instantly surged towards the woman, but before they could reach her, she had darted away with more speed than Gibbs would have thought possible for one so frail. But instead of running in the opposite direction, she sprinted for the Blood with the Stiletto, taking advantage of his preoccupation to wind back and slam a night stick into his ribs. In the next instant the other stick came up, this time aiming for his exposed neck, but the Blood reacted too quickly. The Stiletto was dropped and the now-free hand reached over and snatched her wrist.

Still, she managed to land two more minor blows before the other Survivors altered their course and joined in the fray. The razor wire bat swung towards her from behind, intended to slam into her spine, but at the least minute she twisted, and only the flannel of her shirt was torn by the deadly weapon.

She wrenched her wrist from the Blood's grip just in time to block two pipes swung in her direction, then ducked to avoid the filed rebar that nearly succeeded in decapitating her. She moved quickly, anticipating blows well enough to dodge and block most of them. Gibbs watched on in shock, surprised that one who had seemed so frail had so much skill.

Not many would have thought of going for the Blood first while he was focused on another kill. And glancing at the man in question, Gibbs could see that her clubs had done their job, as the Blood favored the right side of his ribs ever so slightly. It would not be of any use to an average Survivor, but if Gibbs' new assumption was correct, then this woman was no average Survivor.

Her movements were swift and sure, and aimed only for the softer targets, the strikes that would inflict the most damage. Every so often she would feint, draw their attention away just to slam right back with a second, devastating blow. She had training, there was no doubt about it, and it was that training that had kept her alive this long.

The Survivor with the razor wire was the first to fall, after a nightstick slammed first into his temple, and then across the back of his neck. Gibbs could almost hear the sickening crack as the man's neck snapped, and watched as the club fell next to limp body sprawled on the field.

The woman paid for her victory, however, as it allowed the Survivor with the rebar to come close enough to swipe at her. She whirled to meet him, but was too late. The sharpened end of the steel slashed across her abdomen, tearing her grimy tank top to cut deep into her flesh.

She recoiled with a cry of pain, but the Survivor moved in for the kill. He instinctively kicked out with a bare foot, catching her right across the newly inflicted wound. She stumbled back, and then tripped over the body of the Survivor whose throat had been slashed. She fell to the ground, the rebar swinging towards her head, but she used her momentum to roll backwards onto her feet.

The Survivor had not been expecting her agility—nor had Gibbs—and his momentary surprise gave her time to retaliate. She jabbed forward with one nightstick, connecting hard with his sternum before raking up straight up his chest. Gibbs was instantly reminded of a sternal rub—a medical procedure used to determine a patient's response through inflicting inordinate amounts of pain by rubbing bare knuckles against the patient's sternum. The Survivor's features immediately contorted in pain, but then his face was obscured in blood and tears as her second club came up to slam into his nose. The man dropped, but it was not the woman's weapons that moved in for the final blow.

Brains and blood splattered the field as the razor wire-wrapped Louisville slugger came crashing down on the man's skull with seemingly unnatural force. The woman leaped backwards on instinct, putting distance between the Blood now wielding the salvaged weapon. His pipe-wielding buddy came up behind him, and together they stalked towards the woman. This time she stood her ground, though she half-crouched on the balls of her feet, waiting for one to attack first.

The Pipe attacked first, the metal weapon flying towards her head. She ducked at the very last moment as she drove one of her sticks tip-first in the ground, allowing the pipe to whistle over her head before reaching up and catching the Blood's wrist with her recently unburdened hand. Then the remaining nightstick slammed into the man's already extended elbow.

The joint crunched as it shattered under the blow, and suddenly the arm was bent unnaturally, back towards the woman. The Blood screamed in agony, but the woman didn't seem to react as she immediately hooked her club around the back of his neck and yanked his head down to where her knee was coming up to meet it. And then the second nose of the night was broken, stunning the Blood.

Nearly quicker than Gibbs was able to follow, the last Survivor, the final Blood on the field, surged towards her. For a split second, Gibbs thought the woman would be unable to react in time. She was too entangled with the first Blood to reach for the club that still stood upright in the ground, waiting for her, and she wouldn't be able to kill her current opponent before the approaching one turned her skull to a pulp.

But then, just as the razor wire bat wound back for the kill shot, the woman spun into the first Blood. She snatched his only functional hand remaining and twisted, pulling it up behind his back as she forced his stunned body between herself and the other Blood.

The bat connected anyway, as its wielder could not halt its heavy momentum, and the captive Blood could do nothing more than watch his death come speeding towards him. The woman released him as the Blood slumped lifelessly, half of his face stripped to the bone by the blow.

The standing Blood paused in shock at what had happened, but then his expression turned murderous, and fire burned in his eyes as he turned to where the woman had hopped a few steps back, her now solitary nightstick clutched tightly in her right hand.

The Blood took two menacing steps forward with his club raised, and Gibbs thought the woman might dart away from the imposing threat. The Blood was bigger than her by two heads and a hundred fifty pounds, and was mostly muscle compared to her starved frame—which was evidently strong, but too thin to be healthy.

But where the Blood had brute strength on his side, the woman had speed, and she surprised both Gibbs and her opponent when she darted inside his range of motion and struck the vulnerable underside of his shoulder joint.

Her aim was true, and the nerve her nightstick struck caused his arm to spasm, dropping the club involuntarily. The woman took advantage of his surprise and used all of her considerably less body weight to shove the Blood backwards, attempting to knock him off balance. But her momentum only lasted for a few steps before the Blood recovered, his free hand coming up to wrap around her throat. As he did so, he turned, and used his grip on her throat to slam her down onto the ground.

Any grunt of pain she voiced was lost in the roaring of the crowds as they cheered raucously, sensing the end was near. The Blood wrenched the stick from the woman's hand, tossing it out of her reach while she scratched at his hand, gasping for air. Her efforts went unheeded, and the Blood reached with his free hand to pull a knife from his belt.

The blade came down towards her head, but Gibbs couldn't tell if it was meant to pierce her eyes, or if the Blood was trying to slash it over face. But the woman managed to reach out and clutch his wrist, stopping its movement before either of them had a chance to find out either way. With a strength that seemed beyond her frail form, she kept the knife at bay, though her arm trembled perilously from the strain.

Just when it seemed she would no longer be able to fend her opponent off any longer, the woman used the hand she had been using to try and loosen the Blood's grip on her throat to lash out in desperation. Her fist only connected with a glancing blow, but it was enough to distract him long enough for her to get her feet up to connect with his hips. With all the strength she had left, she kicked him away from her.

The crowd shouted in surprise and excitement as the woman rolled and scrambled away, though the Blood had already recovered. The spectators roared in triumph as her opponent got to his feet and strutted towards the woman. She was still on her hands and knees, coughing for air and attempting to put distance between herself and the Blood. But her efforts were for naught, and in the next instant he was on her.

His arm drew back, ready to stab her from behind as he moved to kneel over her. Then, the knife flashed, and the Blood lunged in for the kill. Cheers erupted all across the stadium in thunderous, triumphant victory, and the bleachers over Gibbs' head rumbled and shook as boots stomped in celebration.

But then, suddenly, silence fell. Gibbs stared out at the field, his gaze no doubt joining hundreds of others as the entire stadium peered onto the field.

Neither fighter was moving, but the flash of the knife had disappeared as the Blood leaned heavily on the prone woman. Only, Gibbs could now see that the woman was no longer lying on her stomach—she had flipped herself over at the last moment, so that she was staring into the Blood's eyes. And in that moment Gibbs also noticed the dark liquid dripping from the Blood's neck, and his limp hand that had released its grip on the knife, which now rested harmlessly on the grass.

And then Gibbs saw the metal rod in the woman's hands, the sharpened rebar that had been thrust up through the Blood's throat. A good two inches of the filed tip could be seen poking out the other side of the man's neck, and Gibbs suspected it had severed the man's spinal cord.

Finally, after several seemingly eternal moments, the woman rolled, using her grip on the rebar to leverage her dead opponent to the side. Her hands never once left the steel, even as she shakily got to her feet. With one last heave, she yanked the metal from his neck, taking her weapon with her as she staggered back a few feet.

She didn't seem to hear the revived jubilation of the spectators, but Gibbs did. He heard, and to him it made no sense. A frail Survivor had managed to slay not one, but two Bloods, in their own arena. And yet here they were, cheering the event as they would a football game that had been won in double overtime. It was unreal.

But a soft exclamation from Fornell jolted Gibbs back into focus.

"_Sweet Mary, Mother of God."_

Gibbs glanced at his friend, and found the man's gaze directed skyward. Gibbs followed his gaze to the Jumbotron, where the image of Damon Werth had disappeared, and in its place was live footage of the woman on the field. The giant screen showed everything Gibbs had been unable to see with the naked eye, and the moment he saw it he felt the blood freeze in his veins.

The woman stood, her eyes hooded as she stared at her final opponent. She was breathing heavily, her body swaying slightly with the effort. Gibbs recognized the post-battle exhaustion, the sudden loss of energy as the rush of adrenaline faded.

The first thing that Gibbs noticed about her was the flash of silver that glinted at her throat. Gibbs hadn't spotted it during the fight, but on the big screen it was impossible to miss.

It was a collar. A metal collar that encircled her neck, fitting snugly even around her slender throat. A metal D-ring had been attached to the front, and the implication of its presence sent chills of dread down Gibbs' spine.

The unforgiving camera proved that this night had not been the woman's first fight. Beneath the grime and the blood splattered across her features, Gibbs could see a deep scar that ran from the hairline of her right brow down to the right side of her jaw, tracing its way across the bridge of her nose. It was old, by at least a few months, probably longer, as it was completely healed.

To Gibbs' surprise, it disrupted a black tattoo that swirled from her right brow to her cheek, framing her right eye with something that was reminiscent of Maori tribal designs. He had only ever seen such tattoos on Bloods, but it was obvious that this woman was not a Blood. Because the tattoo, even coupled with the marring scar, could not hide her identity.

Gibbs' lips whispered her name, even though he had no need to tell Sergei or Fornell who the ragged woman was.

_Ziva._

The recognition hit Gibbs like a bolt of lightning. Happiness and relief coursed through him, as did the unfamiliar feeling of hope. But all that was quickly followed by anger, heartbreak, and despair.

It was her. There was no doubt about it. She was thin, dirty from grime, sweat and blood, and her matted, unbrushed hair was longer, but there was no denying it was her. Now that he could see her face, Gibbs realized that her style of fighting had been familiar, especially the arm hold she had used on the first Blood after breaking his arm. He had seen her use it once, before the Incident, on a case that had taken them to the boondocks after a Marine had been found dead in a motel room.

It was her. By some grace of God, it was her. His Shadow. _Ziva._

He eyes snapped back to the Survivor on the field, attempting to reconcile the image on the screen to the exhausted woman center field. As he watched, a dozen Bloods filed onto the field, all armed, some even toting nets. For several long moments, Ziva didn't seem to see them. Gibbs glanced back up at the Jumbotron, and saw her blink heavily, and when her lids opened again, her brown eyes were alert. Her head lifted ever so slightly, and for a split second Gibbs thought she would go on the offensive once she saw the encroaching Bloods.

But as they began to circle around her, she let the rebar slip from her fingers as she held her arms out to the sides. Her palms turned to the front, and Gibbs was struck with the realization that such submissiveness had become routine. But before he could think anything else, five of the Bloods pounced.

Those armed with nets stood close guard as two Bloods each took one of her wrists. She let them wrestle her to ground, with the help of a third man who kicked both feet out from under her and then pressed a knee between her shoulder blades. A fourth Blood came up from behind as the first two wrenched her arms behind her, and he clicked a pair of silver handcuffs over her wrists.

Gibbs watched as the third Blood, the one kneeling on her back, grabbed a fistful of Ziva's hair and pulled her head back. The movement exposed the collar she wore, and a fifth man knelt in front of her, reaching down to feed a slender but long chain through the ring affixed to her collar. On the Jumbotron Gibbs could see the Blood fold the chain back on itself before locking it in place with a small padlock.

Then Ziva was being pulled roughly to her feet, with no small amount of unnecessary tugging on her—leash, for lack a more appropriate term. Gibbs burned in anger at the sight as they began to drag her from the field. She had difficulty keeping up, and fell several times before they reached the stands. They refused to slow their pace, so each stumble meant she slid across the patchy grass for a few moments until she managed to find her footing again. And then she was stumbling up the steps, led higher into the stands.

A glance at the Jumbotron revealed that focus was once again on Werth, who now stood in front of his grisly throne. He was waiting, Gibbs realized, waiting for Ziva to be brought to him. Recognizing the opportunity, Gibbs' eyes returned to Ziva, following her path up through the bleachers. The aisles were clear, and even though the surrounding Bloods shouted and gesticulated wildly at her, not a single one of them attempted to touch her.

And then there he was, Damon Werth in the flesh. From the distance Gibbs was at, he knew he didn't have a hope to kill him, even with his rifle. All he could was watch as Ziva was forced to her knees in front of the leather-clad psychopath, who gave a sickening grin as he lifted the microphone to his lips.

"Our Victor, gentlemen," Werth thundered through the loudspeakers, presenting the shackled woman to masses with a wave of his arm. The Bloods roared their approval, with many a cat call and whistle. Gibbs' jaw tightened painfully, but he received some modicum of relief when he looked at the screen and saw the murderous glare Ziva was giving Werth.

Unfortunately, her fiery gaze did nothing to faze the ex-Corporal. Instead, it only seemed to amuse him more. He crouched until he could look her in the eye, though even then he was still a head taller than her.

"How does it feel to have two more Bloods to add to your tally?" he asked derisively, a cruel smirk curling his lips. He handed the mic off to one the Bloods nearby, who kept the device close enough to the pair so their exchange could still be broadcast over the speakers. A hand came out tightly grip her by the nape of the neck. His touch was unyielding, and he leaned in close.

"Does it make you hot?" he snarled with a malicious grin. Then slowly, he moved even closer, and Gibbs recognized the bastard's intent by the predatory gleam in his eye.

Ziva tried to pull away from the impending kiss, but Werth's hand kept a firm grip on her, keeping her in place. The muscles of his arm contracted slowly as she maintained a growing pressure against his hold, and he was forced to put more effort into keeping her still.

His lips were centimeters from hers when suddenly her head whipped forward, the flat of her forehead colliding with his mouth in a vicious head-butt. The force he was putting into his grip backfired on him, and only helped her to drive the blow home.

Blood exploded over Damon's teeth, and he recoiled in shock and pain. But before Gibbs could even smirk in pride over the small victory, Werth retaliated.

A booted foot slammed into her chest, sending her flying. As soon as the first blood had been drawn, the Bloods occupying the three rows both above and below the nauseating throne scattered, leaving bare metal benches in their wake. As soon as they were out of the anticipated danger zone, they all turned back to watch the unfolding scene with rapt interest. The only two Bloods still in the potential line of fire were the microphone tender and the Blood who managed the end of Ziva's leash. He did nothing to stop her backward motion.

Ziva skidded to a stop some feet away from where she had been kneeling. She had landed on her back, her hands still trapped in cuffs beneath her and Gibbs could do nothing but watch helplessly as she curled onto her side, coughing in pain. He could hear her gasping moans as she fought to catch her breath, even as his pulse began to race when he saw Werth stomping to where she lay.

"Get her up," he ordered gruffly, viciously wiping the blood from his lips. The Blood holding the leash obliged without hesitation. He reeled in the extra chain that had allowed her to skid so far, and then hooked a hand under one of Ziva's arms to pull her back up to her knees. As soon as she was steady, he stepped away, giving Werth the respect he was due.

The Blood with the microphone dogged Damon's steps, and when the ex-Corporal paused in front of Ziva, his heavy breaths echoed through a now-silent stadium. Then, without warning, he lashed out, his open palm connecting heavily with Ziva's cheek.

The force of the blow threatened to topple her once again, but Damon was too quick. He reclaimed his hold on her throat, only this time instead of gripping the back of her neck, his left palm now pressed against her trachea. In the blink of an eye, his right hand found its own target.

Suddenly, Gibbs felt a surge of uncontrollable rage obliterate all rational thought, and only Sergei's restraining hand on his shoulder kept him from charging up the stadium steps to tear Werth's head from his shoulders. Because there on the giant screen, for all the city to see, were strong, abusing fingers sliding up Ziva's bare skin to cup her between the legs.

The monster's touch was almost gentle at first, but then his fingers tightened, digging into her through the denim of her tattered shorts. Gibbs saw Ziva clench her eyes shut momentarily in pain and humiliation, but she refused to make a sound. He watched Werth lean in close, and when he spoke, his voice was menacingly low, though the mic was still able to pick it up and broadcast his words through the speakers.

"Cute stunt," Damon snarled, his voice a wash of pure, unadulterated anger. Ziva opened her eyes to glare at him, though he remained unfazed. But then, as if a switch had been thrown, the malicious superiority returned. "But just remember—I _own_ you."

And with that he finally claimed his prize, slamming his mouth onto Ziva's violently. As he did so, his right hand dug even harder into her, as if by doing so he could tear a hole right through the fabric of the jeans. Her eyes screwed shut against the assault, the only control she had on the situation.

Or was it?

Gibbs watched with smoldering eyes as he watched blood suddenly coat both sets of lips. It was more blood than her previous surprise attack had drawn from his lip, and for a long moment he was terrified that Werth had bitten her. But then the Jumbotron afforded the stadium a zoomshot, and for a split second Gibbs caught the flash of deep red transecting the man's tongue.

Ziva had bitten _him_. It was only small repayment for the damage Werth had inflicted upon her, but it was something. Disappointment came when Damon barely reacted to the pain, and only seemed to press harder against her.

Finally, Werth pulled away, both his lips and his hands relinquishing their hold on her. He smirked as he nonchalantly spit the blood from his mouth and wiped his lips clean. Then, after regarding Ziva for a long moment, he reached out, and tenderly wiped the blood from her lips as well. She let his thumb glide over her lips until the offending substance was gone, but then stubbornly jerked away from his touch.

Damon allowed the defiant gesture, but continued to gaze at her with an indiscernible expression as he rose to his feet. He looked down at her, meeting the hateful glare she sent up to him. Then, with lightning-quick precision, he lashed out once more.

The backhanded blow his right hand delivered to her cheek thudded dully over the loudspeakers, and this time Ziva could not help letting out a cry of pain as the attack came with enough force to spin her off balance, and sent her tumbling down the bleachers. Without her arms to brace herself, there was nothing to protect her from the jarring collisions with the metal bleachers, and she landed heavily between the second and third row down. This time, she didn't writhe in pain.

Gibbs finally tore his gaze away, unable to bear witness to any more abuse. His calloused hand ran over his eyes, preemptively wiping away the tears that had slowly gathered. Sergei's hand tightened on his shoulder reassuringly in a show of silent support, though Gibbs knew the Russian was just as enraged over the events unfolding in front of them as he was. His chest burned with the effort it took to keep his rage under control.

The tightness had just eased enough for Gibbs to breathe properly when Werth's voice could be heard over the loudspeakers.

"Clean her up," came the terse command. "Take her back to the Tracks."

When the stadium finally erupted into another round of cheers and shouts, Gibbs glanced up at the screen just in time to catch a glimpse of two Bloods roughly dragging Ziva down the riser steps towards the nearest exit. In the split second before the camera returned to focus on Werth, Gibbs saw Ziva's bare legs scrabbling for purchase as she was manhandled down the bleachers, and relief washed over him as he realized she was no longer unconscious.

But then she disappeared from sight as the Bloods began to disperse. Milling legs and boots obscured their view from beneath the stands, and the three Residents crouched down into the shadows, hiding from any passing eyes that might happen to look under the bleachers on their way out.

It seemed to take an eternity for the place to finally fall silent again, but Gibbs barely noticed. He didn't notice when the loudspeakers screeched as they were turned off, or when the Jumbotron was shut down. He didn't notice when the stadium lights were powered off, and they were instantly plunged into darkness.

The shock of the night's discovery finally caught up with him, and he sat heavily on the concrete beneath him as he tried to comprehend everything that had happened. Everything he had learned.

The Bloods sated their thirst for blood and violence through modern-day gladiators, and gruesome tests of endurance and battlefield-intellect.

The man behind the Games, and the Bloods as a whole, was none other than a former acquaintance by the name of Damon Werth.

Ziva wasn't dead. She was alive. She was malnourished, scarred, and abused, but she was alive. And better yet, she still had her fiery spirit. She hadn't given up.

She was _alive_.

Gibbs glanced up at his friends, who had joined him in sitting on the dirty pavement. He could see the shock on both their faces, with slack jaws and darkened gazes. He looked at both of them for a moment more before resting his head back against a metal support beam, his gaze drifting to the front. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough.

"You know what Tracks he was talking about, Tobias?"

"You bet your ass. The East Washington Railway runs near here. They're probably using abandoned rail cars for Shelter."

Gibbs nodded in acknowledgement. He made no move to stand, nor did his companions. Silence reigned for a long moment, and the city around them was deathly still. He sighed heavily, and then steeled himself to voice what needed to be said.

"The mission's changed," he stated dully. His gut twisted at the thought of what that simple declaration meant. But to his surprise, Fornell gave a scoff deep in his throat.

"You think, Jethro?"

"No shit," Sergei rumbled in agreement.

Gibbs gave a mirthless grin. "Yeah," he sighed. "No shit."


	14. The Rescue

A/N: Still rated M, though this chapter it's mostly for language. Nothing too bad, but still on the safe side.

Also, I wanted to let you all know some things before I continue. First off, I felt kind of bad making Damon the villain, but I planned this story out before he even came back into the picture this season, and I found that I really really like him where he is for this fic. But for the record, in reality (and canon) I fully enjoy Damon Werth. He might be an actor playing a part on a TV show, but he makes one damn fine-looking Marine.

Secondly, this story is indeed very dark, but I do not intend to have an over abundance of Zangst. Y'all get enough of that in Something More. There is lots of emotion, don't get me wrong, since it's a dark, guttural topic, but... hopefully you'll see what I mean when you read this chapter.

Okay! All that's out of the way, so-- on with the story!

* * *

In the space of an instant, their Mission had morphed from an Assassination to a Rescue.

Gibbs' heart threatened to jump out of his chest each time he realized who it was they were setting out to save. She was alive, and they were suddenly in a place to finally bring her home. But for all the blessing this new development was, it also made their purpose that much more difficult to accomplish.

Before, it wouldn't have mattered if they were caught or killed in the process of carrying out their Mission. All that mattered was that they managed to take Werth down with them. But now, their Mission was to retrieve Ziva and take her back to Sanctuary— which meant they all needed to stay alive long enough for that to happen.

Now, they had to plan that much more carefully, and be that much more vigilant.

And yet, they couldn't. They didn't have the Intel to properly assess the situation, and they needed to act quickly—preferably that night. Logistically, it was the best time to make a move. The Bloods would be worn out from the Games and the festivities, and they wouldn't be expecting three men to rescue a lowly Survivor. If they waited until about three AM, biorhythms would be low, and it would be a little bit easier to take them off-guard.

The only Recon they did was collected once Fornell had led them to the Tracks, which was more a train yard than it was a single strip of tracks. It was immediately evident that this was not where they kept most of the Survivors.

There appeared to be only a few train cars in use as Fornell had predicted, and they appeared to be cargo cars rather than passenger cars. The cargo cars would be spacious enough house Survivors, but the Tracks were too quiet to be where the majority were being kept. Upon realizing this, the three Residents took a moment or two to try and analyze the scene, which inevitably turned into profiling.

"She's not a Blood," Fornell murmured first, careful to keep his voice quiet, "so she wouldn't be here by herself."

"She'll be with Werth," Gibbs said, trying to keep the ire from his tone. He had already explained his knowledge of the ex-Corporal to the other two men, who had simply nodded in acknowledgement. He left out the parts of how Ziva and Werth had seemed to share some vague kind of bond at the time—even he didn't want to think about it.

"Yes," Sergei agreed in his accented voice, nodding. "I have seen his type of behavior before. He will…" His gaze flicked to Gibbs and then not so subtly tried to amend his intend statement. "He will not let her out of his sight tonight."

"So instead of focusing on where she is, we need to figure out where _he_ would be," Fornell translated. They took a moment to survey the scene before them as they sprawled just behind the crest of a hill that gave them a decent vantage point of the Tracks.

When they had first found the Tracks, there had been about twenty-five Bloods milling around the place. Now, less than a dozen remained, and even they seemed to be on their way out. There was no design to their movements, so they were not acting as Patrols or as Guards. At least, not most of them.

"Look there," Sergei rumbled, a meaty hand pointing towards the center of the Tracks. Gibbs peered over the hill, and saw train car next to which three Bloods seemed to be conversing.

"Three Bloods," Gibbs stated, as if to clarify it was what Sergei had been attempting to show him. The Russian nodded.

"Son of a bitch," Fornell muttered. "Look, Jethro. One of them is armed to the teeth." Gibbs peered closer, and sure enough, one of the Three Bloods was laden down with an M16 and a myriad of other weapons. "And I'll bet he's got a twin on the other side."

Comprehension clicked. "Guard duty," Gibbs observed. "They're guarding the big bad boss, and whoever he's got in that car with him."

"Damn straight," Fornell answered with a nod.

So now they had a target to focus on, and when the time came to move, they wouldn't have to waste time searching cars to find her. They waited for an hour more, until the only movement on the Tracks came from the occasional shifting of weight from the Guard they had spotted. It was obvious he was bored, and not expecting anything out of the ordinary.

The bare-boned plan they came up with in the meantime had taken that into accommodation, and with a silent nod, the three men slipped out of sight as they abandoned their position on the hill. Silent as ghosts, they moved onto the rail yard, their movements so smooth that not even the gravel crunched under their feet.

They darted from shadow to shadow, careful to keep out sight of the Blood on duty. When they had no more room to move closer without exposing themselves, Gibbs nodded to Sergei, who immediately drew his knife with a nod. Then, with a speed and grace that belied his size, the Russian swiftly darted to where the Blood was standing. Before the man had a chance to react, a meaty hand had clamped over his mouth while a knife punctured first his windpipe, and then the vulnerable part of the spine where it met the skull.

The kill was quick, silent, and bloodless. Sergei gently stowed the limp body beneath the car, then disappeared around the other side of the car to do the same to the other Blood on duty. As he waited, Gibbs glanced at the gravel in front of him—and froze when he saw dark, familiar drops of shadow on the moon-washed pieces of stone.

Blood.

Looking closer at the ground, Gibbs' old Marine training kicked in, and his keen eyes could suddenly pick out the familiar ovals that were human footprints. The drops of blood existed within a particularly small set of them, which he immediately interpreted as meaning that whomever the blood belonged to had been barefoot when they had walked across the gravel. And then, a few steps closer to the car the Residents were currently targeting, there was a deep furrow, and in an instant Gibbs knew he was in the right place.

Someone had been dragged through here, and recently. Gibbs would put money on it having been Ziva.

But then a flash of movement caught his eye, and Gibbs saw Sergei waving him over. After a quick glance around to look for any Bloods they might have missed, both Gibbs and Fornell joined Sergei next to the rail car. With a nod, he dismissed the two of them to carry out the plan. They would pose as the Bloods on Guard, to ward off unwanted wayward attention, while Gibbs silently entered the car.

The side hatch to the box car was open only by about a foot. After taking a moment to listen for sound from within, Gibbs carefully pulled himself into the car. He remained flat on his stomach once he was in., all too aware of the moonlight at his back, and knowing he needed to keep as low a profile as possible. He also found that by allowing most of the moonlight to cascade over him, he was able to see more once inside.

However, as soon as his vision had adjusted, he almost wished it hadn't.

In the center of the car, two sleeping forms lay on a pile of ragged cloth. Werth nearly dwarfed Ziva's small form with his half naked body as he lay sprawled on his stomach. One heavy arm draped over the curve of Ziva's waist, who lay next to him.

To Gibbs' relief, she was fully clothed, though in the back of his mind he knew that fact didn't really mean anything. It had been hours since the fight had ended, and anything could have happened in the meantime.

She had turned half on her side, her arms lax against the floor in front of her. The cuffs had been removed, leaving raw weeping bands of flesh in their place. Gazing at her, Gibbs couldn't help but noticed how relaxed she seemed. He chalked it up to exhaustion, given the events he had witnessed, and took comfort from the fact that her position in relation to Werth made it seem as though she had tried to move as far from him as she could, with only the restraining arm on her waist keeping her within his reach.

And then he saw the ring of metal around her neck, and from this proximity, he could see that it was two inches wide, and that the D-ring on the front had been attached by hand. As a whole it seemed crude, rough, and vicious. The chain that had been attached to it after the fight was looped around an exposed joist. A padlock, heavier than the one at her neck, locked it in place. Gibbs shoved the growing anger away, forcing himself to focus on what he needed to do.

But before he could realize that he needed a lockpick he didn't have with him, he happened to glance fleetingly towards Ziva's lax features—and froze.

Wide brown eyes stared back at him in the moonlight, her gaze a mixture of confusion, apprehension, and curiosity. She hadn't moved an inch, though the slightest of tension had settled over her limbs. It was then that Gibbs realized that she could only see his silhouette in the moonlight—she had no way of recognizing him.

Slowly, silently he moved just a little bit closer, just enough to cast his face into shadow. There was a long moment as her eyes adjusted and focused, but then they widened even more as recognition hit. She blinked once, as if she expected him to disappear, but when he didn't her chest lifted in a silent gasp of shock.

She held his gaze unblinkingly, and for a moment, the grime and the tattoo and the scar all disappeared from her features. The dark circles under her eyes vanished, as did the bruises and sprinkling of blood that decorated her cheek. For a split second, he saw her as she had appeared the last time he had seen her two years ago, with bright happy eyes that smiled up at him.

But then he blinked, and reality returned. He moved to slide closer to her, but Ziva's hand lifted from the floor, palm towards him, silently telling him to freeze. He obeyed, and watched as the same hand tilted to lightly tap the thin chain pooled on the floor in front of her. The message was clear—she wasn't going anywhere until they got rid of the chain.

He didn't have time to find or manufacture his own lockpick, and alarm rushed through him briefly before he wormed his way back to the open door. He silently touched Sergei's shoulder, attracting his attention. When the Russian looked at him in concern, he got straight to the point and used a calloused hand to mime the presence of a collar around his neck and then used another hand to pull at the air in front of it, as he would a chain.

Luckily, the Russian caught on in an instant, and for a moment his expression turned thoughtful as he racked his mind for a solution. Then, something clicked. He turned back to Gibbs and simply held up a finger, telling him to wait. Gibbs nodded, and Sergei swiftly disappeared from sight.

Gibbs shifted his attention back to the inside of the boxcar. Ziva had remained motionless, still and silent as stone. She had even managed to force the tension from her body, no doubt fearful Damon would sense any long-term stiffness to her frame. He resisted the urge to return to her, knowing that every time he moved he ran the risk of waking Werth.

But then a moment later, Sergei was back, and the Russian proudly handed him an 8'' screw cutter. It was about the size of an average pair of pliers, and seemed so absurdly obscure as it sat in Gibbs' hand that he caught himself wondering where in the hell the man had managed to find it in the middle of a train yard. But then he grinned, and realized it didn't matter. The chain was just skinny enough that the cutters could do the trick, if Gibbs knew the right place to make the cut.

He silently slid back to where Ziva lay, and was unable to bury the elation he felt when he found her still staring at him. It felt surreal, to have her so close, so _alive_… but he shoved that from his mind too. Neither of them would be alive for long if he didn't hurry. He showed Ziva the cutters, and she nodded once in understanding of what was to come.

Gibbs crawled to where he could reach the chain without straining, and would have enough of a grip to exert the force necessary to split the chain. When he sandwiched the chain between the blades, he aimed for one of the joints, rather than a single link. It was a gamble, as it would make it harder to break the chain, but he would only get one cut. Gibbs knew in his gut that as soon as the chain snapped Werth would be violently alert.

He had a single chance to break the chain, and then they would have to run like bats out of hell.

The thought had crossed Gibbs mind to try to cut Werth's throat as he slept, but he knew that Werth's training would make it too difficult to accomplish. The ex-Corporal would wake and fight back, and even though Gibbs might kill him in the end, it wouldn't be before half of DC heard the commotion. On top of that, Ziva was way too close to the bastard for any sort of reassurance that she wouldn't get caught in the crossfire.

So Gibbs focused on the chain. As soon as he was in position, he glanced at Ziva. She was looking up at him, her eyes still wide in the darkness, and when he held up three fingers to indicate the count, she nodded as her body grew tense again, this time as she coiled slightly, ready to launch into action. Gibbs hoped that her speed on the field earlier that night was still with her.

He began the count, silently dropping each finger as he went.

_One. Two. Three._

The chain snapped with a soft _chink_, and Ziva was up like a shot. Damon's arm slipped from her waist as she bolted to her feet, ready to sprint to the hatch. Gibbs was set to follow close on her heels, but he was completely unprepared for what came next.

Just as Gibbs had predicted, Werth reacted instantaneously, but instead of launching to his feet to chase after Ziva, he simply twisted and lunged toward her from where he lay. Before she had a chance to take two steps, Werth's hand had emerged from the blankets, a Ka-bar firmly in his grip.

The knife darted out and with a roar, Damon slashed viciously at Ziva's ankles. She crumpled with cry of pain, and in the next instant, Werth was on top of her, the tip of the knife pressed firmly to the skin above her collar. Their noses nearly touched as Damon leaned in close, completely unaware of Gibbs' presence.

"Trying to escape again, bitch?" Werth shouted, his expression more enraged than even what had been seen at the stadium. "HUH?!" he bellowed, lifting Ziva's upper body up an inch before slamming it back onto the floor. Ziva gasped in pain, and then coughed for air before giving a moan. Tears leaked from her eyes as she struggled to push Damon's weight off of her, but her efforts were futile, as he only let more of his bulk rest on her.

Gibbs acted on instinct, and used the only weapon he hadn't relinquished at the hatch of the box car—the cutters. With a single swing, he brought the pliers back and then slammed them down on the sweet spot left vulnerable on the back of Werth's skull.

By some miracle, it worked, and Werth slumped as he lost consciousness. The knife fell from his hand, but Gibbs barely noticed as he immediately moved to shove the Blood away from Ziva. She gave another moan of pain as he did so, but Gibbs couldn't stop to react to it. He scooped her up into his arms, and sprinted to the hatch, which Sergei had pulled it the rest of the way open as soon as he had heard the commotion inside.

Gibbs jumped out of the boxcar and landed on his feet with an agility he'd thought he had lost. He refused to think about how light she was in his arms, and instead gave a loud "let's go!" before breaking into a run. They avoided the direction they had come—it was familiar, but they knew it to be crawling with Bloods. They kept to the shadows as best they could, and managed to get a good distance from the Tracks before the skidded to a stop in a deserted alleyway.

He gently set Ziva down on the pavement, noticing her quickened breaths for the first time when she gave a guttural groan of pain as she leaned back against the wall behind her. In the shadowed moonlight, Gibbs could see her eyes clenched in pain, and the tears that trailed from them. Moving closer to comfort her, his hand rested on her knee for a moment, which only made her give another sharp cry.

"Don't!" she pleaded breathlessly as she tried to gulp back her tears. "Stop-- don't touch… Please!"

Gibbs jerked his hand away, and she nearly sobbed in relief. He pushed a matted lock of hair from her face, but let his gaze drift down to her legs, which were somewhat splayed, knees bent over to the side. Keen eyes spotted the blood that had begun to pool beneath her ankles, and how the entire back of her heels were smeared with the viscous fluid. Behind his eyes he could see the blurred shape of Werth's knife and Ziva's cry of pain echoed in his ears.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, rage building within him.

Werth's reflexive attack had caught the back of both her ankles; Gibbs could see the gaping wounds the blade had left behind, and even in the dark, he was fairly certain that both her Achilles tendons had been severed. It would account for both the pain and the slightly unnatural lines of her legs from calf to heel.

"Sergei, my pack," he commanded as he moved towards her feet. The Russian handed him the book bag without a word, and Gibbs immediately rummaged through it until he located the bandages Abby had sent with them. He glanced up at Ziva, whose eys were tightly closed against the pain. "I have to bandage these," he told her. "It's gonna hurt."

"Do it," she bit out past clenched teeth.

Gibbs obeyed, not giving himself time to hesitate. He worked quickly and efficiently, shutting out Ziva's muffled cries of pain. He did not allow himself to look up until he had tied off the final knot. It was crude, but effective, and it would have to do, at least for now. Finally glancing up, he found that Ziva had covered her mouth with a trembling hand in an attempt to muffle her cries.

The act surprised Gibbs, since he himself had momentarily forgotten their perilous location in his concern. He forced himself to focus with a shake of her head.

"We can't take her all the way to Sanctuary like this," he said. "We have to find a place to shelter, at least for a day or two." He looked to the mouth of the alley, where Fornell was standing watch. "You know anywhere we can hide out?" he asked his friend.

"Actually," Fornell replied, "we're close to the Navy Yard, believe it or not."

Gibbs felt a jolt of familiarity at the mention of the place that featured so prominently in his Memories. "Perfect," he said. "Ducky kept extra Medicinals in Autopsy. They might still be there." He passed his pack back to Sergei, and then gingerly picked Ziva up once more, who whimpered softly as her wounds were jostled despite his care. "It's fortified, at the very least."

Sergei nodded in acknowledgement, and Fornell simply shrugged.

"Let's do it."

---

It took some effort to get into the NCIS building, and then to force their way past the once-pneumatic doors into Autopsy, but Gibbs took it as an indicator that no one else had gotten there before them. Inside, Gibbs told Sergei where to look for the Supplies, and sure enough, the bandages were still there, and still in their sterile packaging.

While they had been navigating their way inside, Gibbs had noticed that Ziva had been drifting in and out of awareness. It was not due to blood loss, he was sure of it, though he suspected the pain and shock were major factors. He knew his hold on her was painful, as his right arm pushed both behind her knees and pressed against the back of her calves.

Once in Autopsy, he laid her out on one of the silver tables. The sensation of the cool metal on her skin brought her back to full lucidity, and she moaned in discomfort. He murmured words of comfort to her, then informed her of his need to properly re-bandage her wounds. She didn't respond beyond a groan, and Gibbs was unable to discern whether it was out of annoyance or if she were simply drifting out again.

As Gibbs carefully unwound the bandages, Fornell dutifully cleared the adjoining rooms, checking for any unwanted visitors. When the former FBI agent reentered the room, his elbow accidentally flipped a switch on the nearby wall.

Suddenly, with an ominous hum and several loud _whump_s from the direction of the ceiling, the emergency lights running along the walls began to glow. The sudden illumination startled all three men, though Ziva didn't seem to notice.

"Thought all the electricity dried up years ago," Fornell remarked.

"Must be some juice left in the backup generators," Gibbs observed as he continued to work. "It's better than nothing."

The last of the bandages fell away from Ziva's skin, finally revealing the extent of the damage. The bleeding had largely stopped, but now he could see that his suspicions had been correct. When she moved her legs in pain, her feet barely twitched. The driving force behind foot flexion—the Achilles tendon—had been sliced on both ankles. Thankfully, the cuts were relatively clean, with very little torn skin.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, then turned to Sergei.

"I need those bandages."

To his surprise, Sergei did not immediately surrender the Supplies.

"Boss," the Russian rumbled, "I can help her."

Gibbs blinked. "What?"

"Her ankles are cut," came the stilted reply. "I can fix them. The tendons, yes? I have seen it done many times in the field. Easy."

"Sergei, you would need sutures and needles and forceps—we don't have those Supplies here."

"The doctor gave me a kit before we left," Sergei replied quickly. "He said Abby's kit was not adequate when the Boss was concerned."

Gibbs rolled his eyes slightly as he recognized the accented words as those Ducky would have absolutely no qualms saying. But still he hesitated, and his gaze drifted to where Ziva lay, her chest rising and falling at infrequent intervals as the waves of pains came and went.

"It will help with her pain," Sergei added. "She will not walk yet, but fixed tendons will give stability inside her leg, and ease the pain."

After a long moment, Gibbs finally nodded. As Sergei went to fetch his kit, Gibbs moved towards Ziva's head. A hand on her forehead prompted brown eyes to open, and they were soon trained on him, though they were clouded with pain.

"Sergei says he can stitch you up," he told her. "He can reconnect the tendons."

"What?" Her soft voice was thick, and Gibbs saw her eyes unfocus slightly as she shifted her position on the table.

"The pain in your legs—your tendons have been cut."

"Oh." This time, there was comprehension.

Gibbs pressed on. "Sergei can suture them back together—"

"Okay," she responded immediately.

"But there's no way for him to anesthetize you," he finished. To his surprise, she shook her head.

"Don't care," she told him, her voice clipped.

Gibbs smiled. "You sure?"

"Work fast," came the terse instruction. Sergei approached the table with the kit in hand, and nodded as he registered her request.

"She must lie on her stomach, and she must stay very still," the Russian told him. "You must hold her steady."

Gibbs looked down to find Ziva already trying to turn herself over, though she'd been forced to pause halfway there as her weakened legs became entangled with one another in the process. He quickly helped her the rest of the way, but it was Sergei's strong hands that steadied her lacerated ankles.

Once she had settled, Gibbs climbed up onto the table with her. He sat himself Indian style, and together they worked to get her upper body onto his lap, where he could easily wrap his arms around her. He nodded to Sergei, who immediately got to work.

"We found a new home," he told her, attempting to distract when her hand clenched painfully around his as Sergei made the first cut. "You'll love it," he continued switching into full ramble mode. "It's in the middle of the woods, miles from the City. The stars are so bright…" He went on and on.

He knew there was little chance she was listening to him, and even less chance that she would remember it in a few hours, but he kept talking all the same. It was a distraction for him as well. It took his mind off her agonized gasps and whimpers, and off how she writhed against his hold. It took his mind off how frail she was, and how easy it was to still her squirming.

But finally, to his relief and by some grace of God, she suddenly slumped in his arms while Sergei was stitching her left ankle. Look down, Gibbs realized she had lost consciousness. Sergei also saw, and nodded in approval.

"That is good," he declared. "Means less pain. Now she will not feel pain while I do the second ankle."

She remained unconscious the rest of the procedure, and after Sergei had wrapped clean bandages around her ankles, Gibbs helped him turn her so that she lay on her back once more. A pair of the plastic neck rests Ducky used to use for his cadavers kept her feet elevated, which they hoped would reduce both the swelling and her pain level when she woke.

As soon as the procedure had been completed, Gibbs had climbed off the table, but he didn't go far. He stood next to the table, and for several long moments, he simply stared.

It had happened too fast. Finding her, rescuing her… it was too quick. It couldn't be real. Nothing so miraculous could happen in a single night—in a matter of hours. He was half-convinced it was all a dream, or a nightmare. But when he reached out to touch her, her skin was warm, solid. It was even tacky with drying sweat. She was real.

She was here, and soon she would be home. She would be with Tali. His family would be whole again.

He was shaken from his reverie when Fornell approached.

"What's the plan?" his friend asked brusquely. "We can't stay here long."

"If Ziva's not too bad, we'll head out when she wakes up," Gibbs replied after a moment's thought. "She should be okay as long as she doesn't walk."

"There is a high risk of infection," Sergei spoke up. He had found an old rag, and was attempting to wipe the blood from his hands. "These conditions were not ideal for surgery."

Gibbs nodded. "Ducky has antibiotics at Sanctuary. We need to get her there as quickly as we can. If we hurry, we could probably make the trip in about four days from here."

Sergei and Fornell nodded in agreement. After a long moment, Fornell cleared his threat.

"I'm gonna go see what we can Scavenge from this place. Maybe one of the vending machines has a Twinkie." He moved towards the door, but then turned back. "Sergei, is it?" The Russian glanced at him. "You ever had a Twinkie, Sergei?"

"No," came the heavy reply.

Fornell beckoned to him. "Come on, they're best when they've aged a few years."

"Would they not spoil?" the bigger man inquired skeptically, though he did move to join Fornell. The former FBI agent let the Russian pass through the door first, and he gave Gibbs a knowing nod before following, leaving him alone in Autopsy.

"Nah," Gibbs heard Fornell reply once out in the hallway, "haven't you heard? Twinkies never go bad. Klownie Kakes, though, they're a different story…"

But then the Voices died away, and Gibbs was alone with Ziva. He was infinitely grateful for Fornell's subtle segue to draw Sergei out of the room, and giving him some privacy. He pulled Ducky's old desk chair over to the Autopsy table. If he stood, the view of Ziva lying so still was eerily similar to how Kate and Jenny had looked when they had lain on the table. But by sitting in the chair, he could more easily pretend they were in a hospital somewhere, and not in the basement of an abandoned federal building in some sick replay of his most ghostly Memories.

As he sat there, looking at her thin, scarred visage, the events of the night played over and over in his mind. Flashes of her fighting in the Stadium were followed by images of her standing with arms outstretched arms in submission. And then she was tumbling down the risers, before the scene cut to Werth looming over her with his hand between her legs.

Gibbs felt something in him snap, and his head fell to his hands. His chest tightened painfully, and suddenly he couldn't breathe. He began to rock, forward and back, and when the tears finally came, he let them. They poured down his grizzled cheeks, pooling in the stubble that had grown on his jaw since leaving the Sanctuary.

Anger and relief and heartbreak and hope all clamored for supremacy in his gut…

And all he could do was weep.


	15. The Reunion

A/N: Another update! I'm going to run with this for as long as the muse is with me. I got lucky, but this one was the hardest chapter yet! I hope it was worth it!

I use the term "rodimy" which I read was a Russian term that means 'sweetheart', usually applied to kinsmen or someone considered family. Just for you reference in reading this...

Enjoy!

* * *

When Ziva woke, her vision was a blur of shadow and dusty white. The dark of the Boxcar was gone, as was Damon's heavy breaths against her skin. Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered pain, but she ignored it, just as she always did.

Blinking heavily, her eyes focused, and she realized the dusty white above her was actually ceiling tile. She was instantly on edge, as she tried to first to figure out _where_ she had been taken, then _why_ Damon had put her there.

But wait. Damon hadn't been the last face she saw last night. She'd been surprised about something, about someone…

_Jethro. _

No. It couldn't have been. Another dream. That's what it always was. She'd see him, and then she'd wake up in Damon's clutches again. But last night—it seemed different, looking back. She couldn't remember exactly what had happened, but she knew he had been there. Hadn't he?

The air felt heavy in her nose, stale. It struck her as odd… but it didn't really matter, and she simply tucked the information away for later. Where was she?

She turned her head to the left—ignoring the familiar chafe of steel around her neck— and saw a wall of numbered metal squares that struck her as familiar.

Then, all of a sudden, Ziva knew exactly where she was. There was no doubt in her mind what room she was in, or what it was she was lying on. And she knew that she didn't want to be there. She _couldn't_ be there. She had won the fight, she had put up with Damon—

She _couldn't_ be dead.

Instinct kicked in and she tried to jump off the table, but something kept her legs from functioning properly. A flash of pain ran from ankles to knees, but then she was falling, her upper body and hips already over the edge of the autopsy table before she could alter her course.

She braced herself for the impending collision, but then suddenly, strong arms came from nowhere and caught her before she hit the ground. Then an arm reached up and hooked under her legs, lifting them gently from the table before both arms lowered her to the floor.

The arms were thick, and muscular, as was the chest she rested against. She could smell sweat, and the slightest hint of blood, but she knew that whoever had caught her was not Damon. Relief did not immediately wash over her though, because she knew that there was no reassurance that whoever held her was any better than Damon was. All she knew for sure was that the arms around her were definitively male.

"You must be more careful," rumbled a heavily accented voice. Recognition tickled at her awareness, and she was just identifying the Russian pronunciation when her gaze flew up to land on her rescuer's face.

"Sergei?"

The name came out as a question, though she knew in an instant that it _was_ him. The prominent brow, thin lips, the lumpy Russian nose… there was no chance it wasn't him. His had been the last face she had seen before her Capture, and she remembered it as clearly as if she had just seen it yesterday.

Sergei nodded. "Yes," he said in his deep, stilted English. "You are safe now."

She hadn't realized it, but those were the words she had apparently needed to hear. Ziva could feel the tension leave her body as relief washed over her, and she gave a heavy sigh as her hand came up to brush her hair from her face.

"I really am in Autopsy then," she said. Even to her own ears, her voice was raspy from disuse. But Sergei nodded.

"Yes," he affirmed, "at your NCIS." He met her gaze as she swallowed the information, but then frowned when Ziva began to grin.

Suddenly, without warning, a laugh bubbled to the surface, spilling from her lips before she could even think to censor it. Sergei stared at her in confusion as she shook, and moisture pooled in her eyes before finally spilling down her cheeks. The mirthful sound eventually turned silent as she ran out of breath, but it wasn't until her gut began to cramp painfully before she could force herself to suck in a lungful of air.

She looked up at Sergei with a chuckling smile, and saw concern clearly etched on his features. Wiping her eyes, Ziva forced herself to calm down. She rested a reassuring hand on her friend's barrel-like chest and began the task of attempting to explain herself.

"I'm sorry, Sergei, I'm fine," she reassured him. He looked at her in disbelief. "It's just—" She bit back another laugh. "For a long time, I always knew I would end up here… Only—" She snickered involuntarily. "Only, I did not think I would be alive for it…" and then she could contain herself any longer, and she was laughing again, as Sergei looked on helplessly.

Her ribs protested loudly against the strain, and the pain in her chest ended the fun quicker than she would have liked. She took a moment to catch her breath, and leaned heavily against Sergei as exhaustion suddenly hit her.

"You were out longer than we expected, _rodimy_," Sergei told her, his nickname for her rolling off his tongue. She half smiled at the sound of it. But then she stiffened, as one word stood out in her mind, sending a jolt through her heart like a lightning bolt.

_We._

It wasn't a dream, she wasn't dead. He was here, somewhere. Where did he go? She had felt him, his hand on her cheek, pushing her hair from her eyes. That had been _him_. She had to find him.

Suddenly, Ziva shoved herself out of Sergei's grip, her mind focused on the one thing that had kept the fire in her heart burning, regardless of what she had done at any given time.

"Jethro—" her husky voice threatened to give out as she uttered the single word.

She had to find him.

"He was here, where is he?" she demanded forcefully. She struggled to get her feet under her, but her feet refused to respond. "Sergei, where is he?"

Her friend did not immediately respond, but she barely noticed beyond an increase in her frustration as her hands worked furiously to get her feet to get where they needed to be. The pain from before shot through her legs, but she pushed through it, even as the tears in her eyes lost their happiness. Finally, she gave up on her legs, and simply reached up to grasp the lip of the table above her head.

Shoving Sergei's helping hands away, her arms trembled as she fought to pull herself up, a task made difficult by the fact that everything below her knees felt like dead weight. But she persisted, unable to think about anything other than getting to _him_. She had almost gotten her legs under her when her hand slipped from the table, and her legs folded like limp noodles.

But once again, arms rescued her, only this time—this time they weren't bulky against her skin. They didn't dwarf her as they lowered her to the floor. And this time, the voice attached to them was not a rumbling accent. It was a voice that was both tender and gruff, just like its owner, and could whisper words of love just as easily as it could bark out an order.

"Careful," it murmured thickly in her ear, "you'll tear your stitches out."

It was a voice that had echoed in her dreams every night since her capture, a voice that had offered comfort regardless of whether she lay alone, or in Damon's bed. It wasn't a voice at all, she told herself as she turned to face the man she had Survived so long to see.

It was _the_ Voice.

---

Gibbs returned from the head—she'd been out much longer than they'd anticipated—just in time to see Ziva's hand start to slip from the metal table. Moving quicker than he'd ever moved in his life, he somehow made it to her before she fell to the unforgiving tile floor. Somehow he managed to say _something _past the lump in his throat, but then froze as Ziva's head turned, and all he could see were wide brown eyes brimming with apprehension and desperation.

For several long moments, he could barely breathe; her proximity took the air from his chest like a vacuum, and it was if his mind had suddenly severed all contact from the rest of his body. He couldn't blink, he couldn't move. He saw her pulse jumping beneath the skin of her neck, just above the dark hollow of her left clavicle. It sped up erratically as he watched, and he could feel his own heart keeping pace, matching beat for beat.

He was debating the valuing of reaching out to touch her cheek, when suddenly her hand flew up and connected sharply with his cheek.

He blinked in shock; the blow surprised him more than it actually hurt. But before he could do anything else, calloused hands framed his face as her lips came crashing down on his. They trembled against his mouth, and he could hear her breaths grow ragged as the contact persisted. After the longest moment of his life, she pulled away, but something drew her back again, even as she began to speak.

"What were you thinking—?" She kissed him again, fresh tears falling down her cheeks. "You stupid—" Another kiss. "…stupid man!"

He could feel a grin tickling the corners of his mouth, but it was smothered by another kiss. "You could have—gotten yourself—" Short bursts of words were punctuated by quick pecks on his lips. "—killed!" Her hands never once left his face, keeping him in place even if he had wanted to move away. "Did you—even have—a plan?!"

This time, she pulled away long enough to get a full sentence out.

"What were you thinking?" she asked, her fingers tracing his face lightly, her eyes searching his for an answer she didn't wait for. "Dangerous—" she said after pecking his lips again. "He could've—" She leaned in once again. "—killed you!" Gibbs let his own hand come up, and rest against her tangled hair. "You stupid—stupid…"

She was unable to finish when her voice finally gave out. Then, thin arms wrapped fiercely around his neck and she began to shake, her frail body quivering as sobs of relief wracked her. Gibbs pulled her close, his own tears beginning to fall again as he clung to her like a lifeline. His arms encircled her far too easily, a testament to the need to get her back to Sanctuary, but he disregarded it. He focused on the moment, on her ragged breaths against his neck and her small hands clutching his back in desperation.

He held her until her breathing evened out—all too soon, he thought—and let her be the one to pull away first. She wiped her eyes with an apologetic laugh, but Gibbs only smiled as he trailed his thumb along her jaw, the calloused pads of his finger catching on the car that creased her skin.

He still felt that small sense of detachment, as if he still couldn't believe she were real. He knew she was—he could feel her skin and see her smile, and those were real, no doubt about it—but after two years… It was too haunting a feeling to shake off so soon.

Fornell cleared his throat gruffly, and both Gibbs and Ziva glanced up to see him standing awkwardly off to the side, his hands shoved into his pockets with his eyes averted. Sergei had remained where he was, though he too had respectfully averted his eyes. But then his gaze returned to them, allowing Gibbs to see a protective gleam in the Russian's eye. It was one that had previously been been reserved for Tali, but Gibbs was glad to see it there for Ziva.

"Not that I don't know this is a really emotional moment," Fornell said, shoving his hands in his pockets, "but we really need to start thinking about getting out of here. We've been here way too long."

Gibbs hesitated, but finally nodded. "It's almost midday. If we hurry, we can make it out of the city by nightfall."

To his surprise, Ziva bobbed her head in agreement. "It would be the best time to go," she told him. "They'll be North of the Stadium for a few more hours. If we take a route to the Southwest, we may be able to avoid them completely."

"But won't they be looking for you?" Fornell asked.

She shrugged. "They've been having problems with some up and coming Gang up in Maryland. They'll go to them for me first."

"Bloods having trouble with a rival Gang?" Fornell retorted with scoff. "Didn't think there was such a beast."

"Honestly, it's not much," Ziva responded. "But from what I've overheard, Damon's mostly been using them to keep his men occupied."

"He didn't even see me last night," Gibbs spoke up, which only made Ziva nod.

"Then he thinks I either ran, or I was taken by the Maryland gang. Either way, he'll probably assume I ran North anyway, since there's a better chance I'd find protection there."

"All right then," Gibbs said, "Southwest out of the City it is. Sergei, you and Fornell will be forward, and keep a lookout for Threats. I'll follow behind with Ziva."

When they had all gathered their Supplies and Weapons, Gibbs gently lifted Ziva yet again. She moaned involuntarily in pain as he did so, but this time her arm wrapped over his shoulder to help him take her weight, and it made her seem feather light in his arms. The night before, she had been as limp as a ragdoll, which had allowed him to feel what little weight she still had on her bones.

And while she felt nearly ethereal in his arms, he could also feel the muscles that bunched under her skin, and the power in the arm that rested around his neck. It belied what she'd been forced to endure in the two years she'd been missing, the dozens of fights just like the one he'd witnessed the night before, along with who knew what else. But when he caught the gleam in Ziva's brown eyes as she looked up at him, he let the anger go.

Instead, he grinned.

"Don't get used to this," he teased her gently. "If you're going to being staying at Sanctuary, you're gonna have to pull your own weight."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but then her brow arched, nonplussed. "If I have to put up with any more lines like that, I'll have earned my stay by the time we get there."

Gibbs chuckled in response, and then pressed a kiss to her temple, ignoring the grime still caked on her skin. "Touché," he conceded.

She sat up in his arms slightly, bringing her head up closer to his. He heard the severed chain clink against the metal still fastened around her neck, and suddenly wished he had thought to hold onto the bolt cutters he'd used to knock out Werth. But then a shiver went down his spine when her lips tickled the skin of his right ear.

"_Thank you," _she whispered softly, her voice low with heavy honesty. Gibbs' breath caught in his throat, and could say nothing while chapped lips pressed against his cheek. When she pulled away, he glanced at her, and saw her chin quivering ever so slightly as she gave him shaky, but appreciative nod.

They would have time for a long, long talk soon—but for now, they were okay. They had time now, and even though it was more precious than it had ever been before, they now needed to focus on getting home. On returning Ziva safe to the rest of her family, and having Ducky take a look at her, and pumping her full of antibiotics.

He tightened his grip on her and with a nod to Fornell and Sergei, moved towards the door. He was just sidling through doorway after them when he felt a sharp smack against the back of his head. He grunted in surprise, stopping abruptly as he gave Ziva a questioning, sidelong glance, but she only settled deeper into his arms and rested her head on his shoulder, the broken chain brushing against his chest.

"That's for letting me wake up on a damn autopsy table."


	16. The Journey

A/N: I know this update came late, but I swear there's a logical reason. I totally had this chapter almost completely finished, but then I decided it was coming out too cartoonish, so I had to revamp the whole thing. And this past weekend I had no Internet, and the past two days have been crazy with midterms and meetings and getting ready for Spring Break. And unfortunately, I might not post again until Thursday or Friday. There's a lot going on right now. But I swear things are gonna be good. Just hang in there!

* * *

The journey out of the City was blessedly uneventful, but none of them relaxed until they were ambling along an abandoned highway, which was lined by dense woods on either side. Tactically, it would have been safer to avoid the roads and stick to the tree line, but with one of their group crippled, and another carrying her, they decided to keep to the smoother surface of the road. It was quicker, and ran a smaller risk of Gibbs tripping and toppling over with Ziva in his arms.

After years of disuse, the asphalt beneath their feet was cracked and pitted, with a light carpet of green pouring from the broken seams. As a result, the surface beneath their shoes was spongy and soft, muffling their footsteps as they plodded along.

They stopped periodically throughout the day, but never longer than it took to pass around a bottle of water. Ziva's first sip had sent her coughing and sputtering, as if unfamiliar with having more water than she could down with a single gulp. But once she'd had that first sip, she was insatiable.

She polished off the rest of the canteen before Gibbs could even think of stopping her. It hadn't been much, but it was still enough to force its way back up a few moments later. Gibbs held her hair back as she retched, and watched with a heavy heart as only water and bile splashed to the broken pavement. When she had finished, it took several long minutes of gentle coaxing to get her to try drinking again. This time, he made her take small sips and told her continue sipping while they moved on. She was dehydrated, and severely malnourished.

He gave her food that would be easy to consume on the move and easy to digest, though they all had little to work with. Sergei and Fornell both nodded in approval as Gibbs passed their limited Rations to Ziva. They would last the four day trek back to Sanctuary without food, and water was in abundance, as evidenced by the sound of a nearby stream deeper in the woods. Ziva, on the other hand, looked ready to pass out at any moment, despite her energetic wake-up earlier that morning.

But she accepted Gibbs' direction with only a mild glare in return, and drank repeatedly throughout the day. Her stomach didn't rebel again, and they moved as quickly as they could along the highway. Not long after they had left the city, Ziva fell asleep in Gibbs' arms, her head resting heavily on his shoulder. Gibbs was glad for it, since it hadn't been long before his grip on her had begun to cause her pain.

It couldn't be helped—either he carried her as he was, bridal style, or he carried her over his shoulder. A fireman carry would put pressure on her ribs, and without being able to accurately look her over in the time they'd had, he was reluctant to do anything that could aggravate any internal injuries she had.

In the light of the afternoon sun, he could see injuries that he had been unable to earlier, due to the poor picture quality of the Jumbotron, the darkness of the Boxcar and the shadows of Autopsy. The skin on her right cheek, where Werth had struck her down the bleachers, had swollen considerably, distorting the tattoo that framed her eye. The redness was just beginning to deepen, and Gibbs could tell that it would turn into a nasty bruise before it got any better.

There were hand-shaped bruises lining both of her arms, of varying colors and size. There were also a mass of them concentrated on her wrists, beneath the strips of raw flesh left behind by the cuffs, which by now had begun to crust over. He made a mental note to clean her wrists later, to try to wash the dirt from the cuts before infection set in. Her ankles, however, her most worrisome injuries, did not seem to be the worse for wear. Sergei's work seemed to be holding up, with minimal discoloration and swelling.

Every so often, Ziva would awaken once more, and it would be at those times Gibbs would gently prompt her to drink or eat. At one point, just before she dozed off again, her brow had furrowed as she took a deep breath.

"It smells."

Her voice had been soft, blanketed in exhaustion, and Gibbs had almost missed it.

He glanced down at her. "What do you mean?"

"The air. It smells different. Weird. You smell too." When Gibbs chuckled, she backtracked. "Not in a bad way. You smell good. You smell like you."

"The air smells because there's trees and grass, and some wild animals. I smell because I've washed in the past six months."

Ziva sighed sleepily against him. "And I smell 'cause I haven't."

Gibbs debated saying anything more, but it became moot when her eyes drifted shut again. He smiled softly to himself as he continued on. His mind repeatedly drifted to how she wouldn't be dirty for long. How once at Sanctuary they would wash her up, bandage her up, and find her clothes that weren't falling off her frame. Well, they might still hang for a few months, until she gained the weight back, but at least they would be whole, and clean.

And most importantly, they'd get the damn collar off from around her neck.

But how? They didn't have the traditional tools they would have used pre-Incident. However, they had managed to find that one cargo truck that had been abandoned with its load some ten miles down the highway from Sanctuary. It had held various supplies that seemed to have been intended for a construction site, with sheet rock, pipes, wiring, and a couple of hand tools.

He couldn't remember off the top of his head what exactly had been Salvaged, but it was possible a pair of shears had been found. They looked like pliers, but were able to be hand-powered and could cut through thin sheet metal. Glancing at the band pressing against Ziva's skin, Gibbs noticed that the steel itself wasn't too thick. Maybe, just maybe, the shears would be enough to cut through the offending metal.

The group pressed on until well after dark, striving to make the most of their energy. They only stopped when Gibbs heard Ziva's breathing grow harsh from discomfort. She refused to give voice to her pain, but Gibbs knew her injuries were fully making themselves known. They found a clearing to set up camp in, complete with a fallen tree that Ziva could lean up against.

Gibbs wanted to talk to Ziva, but he knew that what needed to be said could not be shared with Fornell and Sergei so near. He satisfied himself with simply remaining close. His eyes could not tear themselves away from her for long as Sergei changed her bandages, and he held her hand in comfort. She caught him staring several times, but was too exhausted to even smile at him. So Gibbs offered the smile instead, attempting to reassure her that he was all right. He managed to get her to eat another small pack of peanuts before she nodded off for the night.

She had been reluctant, and had tried to mumble something about not being hungry, but Gibbs had insisted, and she had obliged him. Gibbs suspected the concession was simply to get him to let her sleep sooner, but he wasn't complaining. He stayed by her side that night, letting Sergei and Fornell keep watch.

He knew he would never be able to repay either man for their roles in helping him. For helping him rescue Ziva. He knew Sergei was doing it for his own devotion to Ziva, first for her memory and now for Ziva herself. But Fornell… the old bastard had only shown up a few days before they had left. He'd had no reason to risk life and limb on a suicide mission, especially not when he'd finally found a safe haven for himself and his fellow Rovers.

It was moments like these, Gibbs realized as he glanced around the clearing at their rag-tag team, when he was reminded that not all hope was lost. Despite the magnitude of the Incident, despite the hardships they'd all faced to Survive, there were still those who would give their lives to help a friend, or even to _honor_ a friend. Even in a world where Bloods pitted Survivors against each other and kept others as pets, where a man could sit on a throne of blood and bone without batting an eye, there was still hope for humanity. There still moments like these when Gibbs knew that love and courage persisted in the forms of old friends and family, and that the human identity could still persevere, no matter what hell it faced.

But he kept his smile to himself, unwilling to answer the questions that might be asked in curiosity at the sight of it. He remained awake that night, and felt the familiar chill of the forest creep up around them. Dawn came blessed quick, and Gibbs watched as the wood began to brighten slowly, revealing the fine mist that had permeated the clearing in the dark.

The others woke with the sun, though Ziva did so more sluggishly than the others. They gathered their things after and quick bite to eat and some water, but when Gibbs went to pick up Ziva, Sergei's hand on his shoulder made him pause.

"Please, Boss," the Russian rumbled, "allow me."

One look at the large man's expression told Gibbs that he was not simply offering his services, to give the Voice a break. Sergei needed to do it, just as he had needed to come along on the mission in the first place. So with a reluctant glance to Ziva, who nodded her approval, Gibbs allowed the larger man to crouch down to Ziva's level. Her arms reached up to wrap around her neck without hesitation, the trust between them evident in her eyes.

Sergei rose smoothly, with more grace than Gibbs would have thought possible. His hold on Ziva was almost reverent as glanced down to ensure she wasn't in any pain. But she hadn't even winced, and within moments they were back on the highway and making their way home. Their pace started out even brisker than it had been the day before, with Fornell in the lead and Gibbs at the rear. Sergei and Ziva were in the middle, and for several hours neither of them spoke. They all walked silently, intent on both getting as close to their destination as possible and keeping an eye out for Bloods or hungry animals.

But just about the time the sun hit its zenith, Sergei's familiar rumbling could be heard.

"There are many people waiting for you at Sanctuary, _rominy_," he said slowly. Ziva looked up at him, glaring against the bright light. "They do not know it yet, but they have all been waiting a very long time." The Russian grinned. "There is one in particular. A little girl." Gibbs saw Ziva stiffen in Sergei's arms as he continued. "A little girl with brown hair and big blue eyes."

Even from his position behind the pair, Gibbs could see Ziva's eyes widen, filling rapidly with tears. Her lips pressed together briefly, and when she spoke softly a moment later, her voice was thick.

"Tali?" she whispered. Sergei nodded. Ziva tried to smile, but the impending tears prevented her from doing so unhindered. "I had been afraid to ask…" She looked up at Sergei once more with pleading eyes. "She's all right?"

"More than all right," Fornell offered from the front. "She's a half-pint ball of fire. I don't know how anyone can keep up with her."

His comment was met with a smile that Gibbs could barely see over Sergei's shoulder.

"Of course you don't, Fornell," Gibbs joined in good-naturedly, "since the last time you did any PT was about twenty years pre-Incident."

Fornell glared over his shoulder at Gibbs, as well as the two other sniggering Residents, but failed to deliver a staggering comeback in return. Gibbs gave a chuckle of his own as they continued onwards. His attention quickly returned to Ziva, however, and he saw her lean up and place a tender kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you," he heard her say softly, in a tone that told him she intended only Sergei to hear. "For honoring your promise to me. For keeping them safe." A thin hand came up to cup his cheek as she offered him a smile. "I know Rider would be proud."

For a long moment, nothing else was said. Gibbs almost believed that Sergei hadn't heard her, but then finally, the Russian's rumble continued, only now as a nearly unintelligible whisper.

"I have done nothing worthy of pride, _rominy_. I left you, when you took the path that I should have claimed for myself. You should have been the one to return to your husband, to your family, but it was I who did in the end." Sergei's gaze met hers with burning intensity. "It is not a mistake that will be repeated in the future," he told her, with no room for debate.

Ziva nodded once, accepting his declaration without saying another word. Her head dropped back to Sergei's heavily muscled shoulder, and out of Gibbs' line of sight. The pair didn't speak again for the rest of the day, which Gibbs suspected may have been due in large part to Ziva's continued exhaustion.

When they stopped again for the night, after an uneventful day's trek, Gibbs noticed that Ziva seemed paler than she had seemed the night before, but he couldn't be certain it simply wasn't the angle of the moonlight washing over her. But when she gave a moan of discomfort when Sergei gently lowered her to the ground, he knew the pain had increased from yesterday. He immediately went to try and ease her discomfort, but was dismissed just as quickly.

"I'm fine, Jethro," she told him through gritted teeth, pushing away both his curious hands and his concern.

"Ziver—"

"Please, Jethro. Stop. I'm fine. I just need to rest."

Gibbs tried to ignore the harsh rasp of her voice, sharpened by pain, and the stiffness in her limbs as she moved and when Sergei immediately began to change her bandages. Her eyes glinted in the darkness, a silent warning aimed directly at Gibbs. He heeded it, against his better judgment, in an attempt to avoid a full on battle between them.

Within moments of Sergei finishing his task, Ziva was fast asleep. She hadn't had anything to drink for a few hours, and hadn't eaten since midday, but Gibbs decided to let her sleep. It was obvious that going the night without food or water wouldn't be an uncommon occurrence for her, and if sleeping gave her a respite, Gibbs was all for it.

So instead of waking her, he gave Sergei a nod telling him to keep an eye on her, and went to take the first watch. His hovering would do neither him nor Ziva any good, and having a quiet moment alone to process would help relieve some of the tension that had been growing in his limbs over the past 48 hours. His gut told him that even though they were within a day and a half's journey from Sanctuary, they were not safe yet. Something was going to happen, and soon—he just didn't know what.

It didn't appear that they had been followed. He doubted Werth would have the discipline to track them rather than destroying them on sight. And as far as he could tell, they were not in any danger of running into the larger predators of the forest. So maybe they weren't in any physical danger. Perhaps he was simply apprehensive about what would happen when they finally reached Sanctuary.

How would he explain to Tali who this new addition to their family was? There was no way the small girl could remember Ziva. They'd barely spent a week together, and even though they had bonded, Tali had been too young to form lasting memories of brief an experience from so early in her life. What would it do to Ziva if the child reacted badly, rejected her?

Gibbs knew from the sparkle in her eyes he had seen earlier that day that Ziva still cared deeply for Tali. No doubt, the kid had been a lifeline for her in the past two years, a reminder of why she continued to do her best to Survive. If Tali spurned her, out of fear, or perhaps resentment that she now had to share her father's affection with a stranger, how would that affect Ziva? Gibbs may have been able to predict her reaction two years ago, but now, it was a toss-up.

As much as he hated to admit it, Ziva was a wild card.

The night passed smoothly, and halfway through Gibbs relinquished his post to Fornell, and stretched out next to Ziva to catch a few hours' sleep. He was careful not to jostle her, for fear of waking her up. He wanted her to get as much rest as possible, especially when she was so adamant to not allow her pain to hinder them in the slightest. The longer she slept, the longer he could at least believe she wasn't in any pain.

In what seemed only like moments, the sun was up again, drawing Gibbs from his brief sleep. Blinking the exhaustion from his eyes, he stood and arched his back. His back popped in at least three places, and nearly instantly some of the stiffness that had settled along his spine disappeared. Within moments Fornell and Sergei were up and ready to go. But when he glanced at Ziva, Gibbs found she was still asleep. She hadn't even stirred.

Gibbs knelt next to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder to rouse her without startling her. He softly called her name, but when her eyes remained closed, without so much as a twitch, alarm flooded him.

"Ziva?" He shook her shoulder more firmly. "Ziva!" His hand flew to gently pat her cheek, but he froze when his fingers made contact with skin that was scorching to the touch. "Damn it," he cursed under his breath. "Ziva! Can you hear me?" He let his fingers tap sharply on her cheek, in an attempt to wake her, but it was of no use.

There was a light sheen of sweat that coated her skin, even in the morning chill, and under his touch she seemed to shiver. It was obvious she had a fever but what had caused it? Her ankles were clean, and though they had caused her pain the day before, the work Sergei had done seemed to be holding up.

Gibbs' hand unthinkingly brushed against her ribcage, eliciting a pained, muffled moan from Ziva. Gibbs immediately jerked his hand away, his eyes searching for any other signs of awakening in his wife. But nothing had changed.

It was then that Gibbs noticed that his hand, the hand that had touched her midriff, was damp. He glanced at his fingers and saw them tacky with blood, and a clear fluid smeared with a thicker, white substance.

Alarm flooded him as he recognized the sticky fluid, and in an instant he was pushing the hem of Ziva's tank top up to reveal the bare skin of her abdomen. And there, clear as day, was a sight that made Gibbs' heart clench tightly in fear.

A long gash traveled from her right hip to just beneath her left breast. It was deep, especially across the softer regions of her abdomen not protected by her ribcage. But it was not the severity of the cut that terrified him, but the obvious infection that had taken root in the exposed flesh. Her entire abdomen was bright red, with darker streaks trailing away from the gash, but the jagged edges of the cut itself were blanched and a sickly shade of off-white.

The wound was still sluggishly leaking blood, as well as the tacky clear fluid that had covered Gibbs' hand. But even more concerning was the thick, yellowish pus that oozed from deep within the slashed flesh. Gibbs' fingers rested lightly on either side of her abdomen, keeping them away from the raw, red skin, but even that soft touch made Ziva whimper in pain.

Her own hands came up to weakly try to push his hands away. Gibbs saw her eyes finally open, but they were clouded from fever and pain. She mumbled something at him, but it came out as nothing more than a muffled jumble of words. Gibbs tried to brush the hair from her sweaty forehead, but she pushed him away as forcefully as she could, which was really nothing more than a slight pressure on his wrist. But her touch was not one of trying to fend off his ministrations—in her fevered state, she thought he was Werth.

And that realization turned his gut to ice.

Gibbs silently cursed himself, kicking himself for not remembering the blow she had taken during the Games that first night in the City. One opponent had managed to slash her with a sharpened piece of rebar. Even thinking about it now made Gibbs wince—he should have remembered it that first night. And every day since then. How could he not have noticed?

The tank she wore now was not the one she had worn that night, he suddenly realized, not finding a corresponding tear in the fabric. It was whole, and had shielded her untreated wound from his view. But he should have remembered regardless. And he hadn't, and now the dirt and the sweat and the grime from the road had had a chance to fester in the wound.

They nothing in their packs to treat so grievous an injury, and even less to combat such an infection.

And on top of all that, they were still a day and a half from Sanctuary.


	17. The Return

A/N: Here's the next installment! On spring break now, so I'm hoping I can finish this thing up by the time I have to go back to school. Cross your fingers!

* * *

"Sergei!" Gibbs barked, pulling Ziva's shirt back down over her midriff. "We need to get back to Sanctuary. Now." He tossed the other two men their packs, not looking to see if they caught them. "Do you know a route off-road that will get us there faster?"

"Perhaps," Sergei said, his voice short and to the point. "This section of forest is mostly unmapped. I could try to navigate as we go, but I was under the impression that it would be too dangerous to take the Shadow in her condition."

"She's not gonna make it if we stick to the road," Gibbs stated bluntly as he gathered the woman in question into his arms, drawing another whimper from her limp form as he did so. "Her immune system's shot. This infection could kill her by the time we get there."

"Whoa, wait a minute," Fornell interrupted, a step behind the latest development. "What infection?"

In Gibbs' mind he saw the flash of movement as the rebar swung towards her, and Ziva's cry of pain as it connected echoed in his ears. But he shook the memory away with a mental smack to the head. No time for that.

"She's cut," he stated simply. "It's infected because we didn't treat it. We need to get to Sanctuary yesterday. Sergei, can you get us there by nightfall?"

Sergei nodded. "I believe so. If I am right, we should reach the Border by mid-afternoon, near the Road. But it will be treacherous."

"No other option," Gibbs declared. "Let's go."

Sergei led the way, and within moments they were deep in the shadows of the dense forest. They didn't bother to cover their tracks, instead focusing on moving as quickly as possible over the rugged terrain. Sergei was right—the going was treacherous, and several times they ran into obstacles that threatened to turn them back.

The first was the small river they had been using for water the past two days. Only now it had widened, and rushed quickly over the riverbed, and they needed to cross it. A tree had fortuitously fallen to create a footbridge, but what may have been simple had he been by himself, Gibbs had difficulty balancing both his and Ziva's weight on the relatively slender trunk. To make matters worse, Ziva began to stir restlessly in his harms two-thirds of the way across. She never fully woke, but her fevered movements nearly sent them both plunging into the river below—only Sergei's quick reflexes and steadying hand had kept them upright.

Other obstacles included steep slopes—one even nearing cliff status—and beds of loose rocks that made it difficult for even Sergei and Fornell to keep their footing, but they managed to navigate them all successfully and without incident through teamwork and not a little creative thinking. Throughout the whole ordeal they attempted to keep Ziva hydrated as best they could, but in her semi-lucid state and new inability to keep anything down, they spent more time trying to coax her into drinking than it took for the water come right back up again. Finally, they abandoned their attempts and simply focused on getting home.

Gibbs nearly collapsed from relief when they hit the Border, but the shivering form in his arms reminded him that they weren't out of the woods yet. Apprehension filled him as they moved closer and closer to Sanctuary, and slowly he realized he was scared out of his mind.

At the Navy Yard, in the woods, everything was going to be okay, as long as they got to Sanctuary. But now that they were close, Gibbs began to wonder if their promises to Ziva had been true. Would Ducky really be able to help her, especially now that she was so sick? Would they be able to get rid of the collar? Would his family really be whole again, with Tali accepting and loving of this new woman? Would they be able to pick up where they had left off?

Would everything really be all right?

He didn't have any answers, only a silent internal battle between hope and doubt. Seeing Ziva's condition steadily worsen did not lift his spirits either. By now her clothes were drenched with sweat, and even his own shirt was damp with her perspiration. Her shivering had become constant now, and her thin frame continually shook in his arms. Her breath rattled in her chest, and every so often she coughed harshly, as though she couldn't get enough air. But to Gibbs' relief, her breathing always evened out again.

By the time they hit the Road that would take them the last half mile to the town, it had been about almost two hours since Ziva had come even close to regaining consciousness. Gibbs fought to keep himself calm as they moved ever closer to their objective. He tried to keep his stride even, to avoid jostling Ziva too much, and to avoid causing her unnecessary pain.

The sounds of the Residents moving around the town reached their ears a few minutes before they actually came within sight of the heart of Sanctuary. It was a little after midday, which meant the Residents were all converged on the center of Town, eating and talking amongst themselves. And it meant that said congregation stood between him and the House.

The whole of Sanctuary would witness his return, and the return of Ziva David.

But his concern for his wife overrode any apprehension he felt at the prospect of making the long walk through Town, past dozens of staring eyes. With Sergei and Fornell in front to run interference, Gibbs strode strongly around the bend that took them within sight of the Residents. For several minutes, no one noticed their arrival.

The respite didn't last long though, and soon Dylan—a young, newer Resident who had joined them after the Evacuation—spotted them. He nudged his friend, who nudged the Resident next to him, until all of Sanctuary had their eyes trained on their dirty, weary trio. A few Residents started to call out in greeting, but stopped short when they saw the limp woman in Gibbs' arms.

Soon enough, the familiar patter of little feet sprinted towards them.

"Daddy, Daddy!"

Tali pushed past the last legs separating her from her father, and Gibbs could see the excitement in her eyes as she pounded towards him, Shirt in hand. But the little girl stopped short in surprise and confusion when she realized his arms were already occupied. He could tell she was ready to protest at the development, but the silence of the other Resident's made her teary eyed instead as she brought the Shirt close to her chest for a tight hug.

"Tali!" Abby called, pushed through the crowd. "You know you're not supposed to run off on your own!" The scientist's arms wrapped around the little girl, hefting the child up onto her hip. "Gibbs, I'm sorry, I know you said—"

It was in that moment Abby's eyes found him, instantly drawn to the shivering woman he was carrying. Green eyes squinted, and then widened with shocked recognition. Gibbs heard the soft gasp that passed her lips, but the scientist quickly clamped her jaw shut against any further reaction. Her arms tightened around Tali as she froze in place, and only her head turned to follow Gibbs' path through the Residents.

The crowd parted before him, rendering Fornell's and Sergei's presence unnecessary. Some of the Residents, the older ones who had lived at the Warehouse, gaped in disbelief. Hands covered silent gasps, and couples instinctively moved closer to one another. The newer Residents were just as silent, though their expressions conveyed confusion and pity rather than the stupefied amazement of the others.

Gibbs saw Ducky in the crowd, and it took only a glance for the doctor to comprehend the situation. He turned to Palmer, and murmured instructions to the younger man. After moment of staring dumbly at Gibbs and his burden, Palmer moved to obey. Ducky looked pointedly at Gibbs, and then nodded in question towards the House. Gibbs nodded, and then passed his friend without saying a word.

He moved briskly, but smoothly, and was thankful when the front door of the House shut behind him, blocking the stares burning into his back. He was up the stairs in an instant, leaving Fornell and Sergei to follow behind. He took Ziva to the room he shared with Tali at the end of the hall, and gently lay her down on the larger of the two beds.

The bed was pushed up against the eastern wall, so when Gibbs settled Ziva on the mattress, he could see Fornell's solemn gaze as he watched from his position just outside the door. For a moment Gibbs wondered where Sergei had gotten to, but his attention quickly returned to the woman on the bed. He tried to shut out the moan of pain that slipped from her lips as he set her down, but it made his heart hurt all the same.

He sat next to her, pushing her hair away from her brow, where the matted strands had stuck to her damp skin. To his touch, her temperature seemed even warmer than the last time he had checked. But before he could yell down to the others, a bowl of water and a damp cloth was passed to him from the direction of the door.

Gibbs received it with a nod to Sergei, who had just joined Fornell outside the room. He dipped the cloth in the water, and then wrung it out before pressing it gently against Ziva's overheated skin. For a moment, it seemed as though she felt the relief of the cooler moisture, as her expression softened ever so slightly. But then, suddenly, she began to cough.

The shivers coursing through her body were eclipsed by the spasms that wracked her as she hacked harshly. What sent Gibbs into a near panic was when the coughing persisted, to the point where she could barely struggle for breath between coughs. The sound of it was dry, almost a bark, though it rattled deep inside her chest as she choked for air.

"Where's Ducky?!" he shouted, unable to keep the fear from his voice.

Before Sergei could answer, the doctor was there, his small duffel of supplies in his hands. "I'm here, Jethro," came the accented reassurance.

"She can't breathe, Duck," Gibbs bit out. "She just started coughing, and now she can't breathe…"

Ducky quickly appraised the situation, and took over the situation with a calm hand. "You must help her sit up," he instructed firmly. "Do your best to keep her from exerting herself further."

The force of Ziva's coughing was already picking her up off the mattress, so it was easy for Gibbs to slide underneath her shoulders. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, careful to avoid her injury. His aid did seem to ease her coughing, and at Ducky's further instruction, Gibbs managed to help her drink some water, which soothed her further.

Ducky's first order of business was to take Ziva's hand and insert a needle expertly into her vein. The needle immediately began to deliver the IV of saline and antibiotics, and then the doctor's attention shifted to her stomach. He gently lifted her shirt, eliciting a harsh whine from his patient. Fragile hands tried to push him away, but it was simple for Gibbs to grasp her arms, keeping them immobilized.

Gibbs heard Ducky inhale sharply when he saw the damage, but the older man recovered quickly. He turned to Sergei.

"I do not have the necessary supplies for this," he said. "Could you please go to Mr. Palmer, and tell him I need sterile scalpels and extra gauze and saline?" Sergei nodded, and quickly disappeared. Ducky turned back to Gibbs. "I need to know what caused this," he said carefully.

Gibbs hesitated, not wanting to share any of the gruesome details that had only grown more bloody each time he recalled that night at the stadium. But he recognized Ducky's need to learn, in order to know what he was up against.

"Sharpened rebar," he muttered softly. To Ducky's credit, the doctor didn't even blink.

Gently prodding the flesh around the weeping wound, Ducky continued to ask questions. "Rusted?"

"Possibly."

"Were there any obvious contaminants on the metal?"

"Probably. But I don't know for sure. I know it hit the ground before it cut her."

Ducky sighed. "Well, I'm sure I do not need to tell you that she's severely malnourished. I fear her immune system is not in any shape to be fighting this kind of infection. It has already become systemic. It is in her blood stream."

"But the IV will help… won't it?"

"It will help," Ducky conceded. "But I am afraid it is too soon to tell if it will be enough." He looked up to make eye contact with Gibbs, even as his hand rested on Ziva's forehead in an attempt to estimate her temperature. "It is a miracle she is still alive," he said carefully, "but it does not mean she will even last the night."

Gibbs' breath caught in his throat, and his immediately began to burn, but he refused to let it show. He shook his head.

"No," he declared forcefully. "No. She wouldn't come this far just let go now. She just needs some help." Despite his intentions, his words did little to reassure either one of them. "She just needs us to help her."

"And we will do what we can for her," Ducky agreed. "But it is important you know that even that may not be enough."

At that point, Palmer and Sergei appeared in the doorway. Palmer held a duffel bag stuffed with the necessary supplies in one hand, and he strode confidently into the room. There was none of the hesitation that might had been in there before the Incident—the younger man was not at all fazed by the shivering form in Gibbs' arms.

Ducky turned back to look at Sergei.

"We will need blankets and a steady supply of warm water" the Scotsman told him. Also, if you could find a turkey baster, I would be much obliged."

Gibbs looked at Ducky skeptically. "A turkey baster, Duck?"

"To better flush her wound. Once I cut away the worst of the infection, we will need to rid the exposed flesh of any debris and extraneous fluid."

"The white stuff."

"Yes. That is pus that will only continue to further contaminate the wound. We will need to press it from the wound several times before she is out of the woods, but it will help." Wizened eyes followed Gibbs' hand as he moved to moisten the cloth that had been pressed against Ziva's skin. "Stop," came the firm command.

Gibbs instantly froze. "Duck?"

"This is not heat stroke, Jethro. The cool water against her skin will only make her shiver more, which will in turn raise her body temperature further. And at this point, that is the most threatening factor of her condition."

"But the IV—"

"Will help in the long run. The fever could kill her before the IV has a chance to work, which is why we need to break it as soon as possible. The IV is mostly to hydrate her and to deliver the antibiotics. It should stop the infection from getting any worse, but won't do much for the fever."

As soon as Sergei returned a few minutes later with the items Ducky had asked for, the doctor fell to work. Gibbs was in charge of trying to keep her upper body still while Sergei managed her legs and hips as she writhed in pain. Ducky first irrigated the wound tract, rinsing the pus and blood from the torn flesh. If that wasn't enough for Ziva to handle, the elder man immediately continued on to carefully carve small pieces of contaminated tissue from the cut itself.

At the point, Ziva woke, though her eyes were clouded with fever. She began to beg, muttering almost unintelligible pleas for it to stop, even as her hands tried to break free from Gibbs' grasp in order to push away Ducky's ministrations. But Gibbs's hold was too strong, and she was too weak to do more than squirm.

The sound of her strained protests was punctuated by bouts breathless coughing. It threatened to send Gibbs into his own panic, but he managed to keep his cool by murmuring words of comfort she couldn't hear. There was no sedative adequate to ease her pain, and even if there had been, Ducky deemed it too dangerous to administer in her condition. Though he was reluctant to tell Gibbs, he feared that if given a sedative, she might never wake up.

To Gibbs' chagrin, Ziva didn't lose consciousness like she had in Autopsy. She never fully woke either, instead remaining in a state of fevered awareness that allowed her to feel the pain of Ducky's treatment, but not to recognize where she was or whom she was with.

But finally, Ducky put the scalpel down. He pressed gently on either side of the angry gash, forcing a mixture of blood and pus to ooze from the wound. Palmer was there to wipe the fluids away, and then Ducky repeated the motions again, pushing more of the tainted substances to the surface. He did it several times, until the only substance that welled up was unpoisoned blood.

The two doctors covered the cut with clean, medicated bandages without suturing the wound shut. Ducky explained that stitching it closed would only allow the wound to fester, while keeping it loosely bandaged would give it a chance to air out some. Long strips of gauze wrapped around her middle to keep the bandages in place, and as soon as they were tied off, Ducky urged Gibbs to slide out from behind Ziva.

A pile of pillows replaced his bulk, keeping her head nad shoulders elevated. She was breathing heavily from the pain and fever, but the coughing had lessened enough for Gibbs to give a small sigh in relief. Moving to sit on the edge of the bed next to Ziva, Gibbs was now able to see that the spectators at the door now included both Tim and Tony, who watched with faces pale and slack in disbelief.

He ignored them in favor of focusing on his wife, and the instructions Ducky was sending his way.

"She should be covered in a light blanket, to help stave off her chills," the Scotsman said firmly, wiping his bloody hands on a rag Palmer had handed to him. "But nothing too heavy, or she will be too must keep her hydrated, so if she is able to drink, have her do so slowly. But if she remains as she is, then the IV will be sufficient. I will monitor her closely."

"_We_ will monitor her closely," Gibbs returned, a fierce territoriality creeping into his awareness as he gazed at his wife. "_We_."

"No, Jethro," Ducky responded. "You have other duties you must care or first."

Gibbs opened his mouth to protest, but Ducky continued.

"For instance, the little girl who had been inconsolable since the day you left. You need to speak to your daughter, Jethro. I will stay here—Ziva will be fine until you return."

Gibbs froze.

_Tali_.

He had nearly forgotten, but now the image of Tali's shocked expression could not be chased from his mind. He knew Ducky was right, but he didn't want to leave Ziva, not when she was still shimpering in pain. But the heavy weight of Sergei's hand on his shoulder prompted him to go.

"The Doctor is right," the Russian stated simply. "The child needs you more than Ziva does. I will make sure the Shadow is safe."

Gibbs hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. He stood, but then leaned down to press a kiss to Ziva's warm brow. Without allowing himself to second-guess his decision, the Voice left to find his daughter. He pushed past both McGee and DiNozzo, focusing solely on the task at hand, but both men trailed after him.

"Boss—"

"Is she--?"

They both tried to speak at the same time, but their words petered off when Gibbs gave a single response.

"Not now," he told them brusquely. "Tim, where are they?"

McGee needed no elaboration. "Waiting for you in the Garden."

"Stay here. If there's any change, find me immediately."

"Yes, Boss," both men responded, stopping short in their tracks as Gibbs disappeared down the stairs.

Within moments he was out of the House and making his way to the Garden. The Garden was not a garden so much as it was a large patch of wildflowers on the far end of Town. The flowers surrounded a large boulder that served as a comfortable place to sit, and Tali enjoyed the multitude of bright colors the plants offered, making it a good place for the two of them to find peace.

The Residents had abandoned their Tasks for the day, all of them too shocked to do anything more than mill about in the center of Town. Gibbs pushed through them without a word, unwilling to share what little information he had on Ziva's condition. He could barely think, barely breathe. He just needed to get to Tali. That was the only thought that could process itself past the images of Ziva in his mind.

But then he was there, reapidly approaching the field of wildflowers. Abby sat on the boulder with Tali playing quietly in the flowers at her feet. The tension in the scientist's frame was obvious, and her long fingers worked worriedly at her hands, wrinkling them nervously. Andthen she looked up, and spotted his approach.

She stood to meet him, but stopped herself after a moment's thought. Tali had similar qualms as she stood as well, but she took a few nervous steps forward towards her father before stopping short. She looked up at him with wary blue eyes that sparkled with tears.

"Daddy…"

Tali's voice wavered, her earlier excitement gone. Her tone was uncertain, and confused. She didn't understand what was going on, but the greatly altered atmosphere of the entire Sanctuary had found its way to her as well. She knew something was wrong, and that it had something to do with her father, but her young mind couldn't comprehend anything more than that.

As soon as he was in reach, Gibbs knelt and wrapped his arms around her, holding her as tight as he could without hurting her. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her face burrowing into his shoulder. He felt the Shirt in her hand brush against his back, and his heart cracked a little bit more. The tears that had fallen in the privacy of the abandoned Navy Yard threatened to return, but somehow he managed to keep himself together. After a few minutes, he stood once more, picking Tali up as he went.

The arm not supporting Tali's weight reached out to Abby, who moved in to receive her own comforting embrace. It didn't last long though, and she quickly pulled back slightly to voice the questions that had been flying through her head at warp speed ever since seeing his return.

"Gibbs…" her voice was soft. "Was that really…?"

Gibbs nodded. "Yeah, Abs. It's her."

The scientist sighed sharply, her expression a mixture of relief and concern. "She didn't look good, Gibbs. She looked really bad." Her words wavered tremulously as she wiped her eyes with a brusque. "How did she Survive, Gibbs? Where has she been? She should've been here with us. And what was that thing around her neck? And her face—Gibbs, her face…"

Gibbs pulled her close again, allowing her tears to dampen his already grimy shirt. Her hands clutched at him, belying the desperation she was trying to conceal from him. He pressed a kiss to her forehead before pulling away enough to look her in the eye.

"I'll tell you and the others what I know later, ok Abs?" He jerked his chin towards Tali, who was still clinging to him like there was no tomorrow. "I don't want her to have to hear it."

Slender fingers clutched tighter at him, and Gibbs knew that Abby fully understood what he was trying to say. Her best friend had been through something horrific. She'd suspected, but it didn't make the ascertaining of that suspicion any less painful.

"Daddy…" Tali's voice drifted up to Gibbs' ears, small and careful. "Who was that lady you were carrying?"

Abby's fingers clenched at the child's question, before the scientist fully pulled away from Gibbs. She wiped her eyes again as she cleared her throat.

"I'm going to go find Tim," she told him softly. "I'm sorry, I just can't—" She couldn't hear the story again. She didn't want to know how he was going to explain the situation to his daughter.

"It's ok, Abs," Gibbs reassured her. He nodded in understanding. "He's up at the House. Don't go upstairs," he cautioned. Abby nodded, appreciative of his innate understanding of what she needed; she wasn't ready to see Ziva like that. Not yet.

When she was out of earshot on her way back to the House, Gibbs took Tali and sat down on the rock. He settled Tali on his lap, where she looked up at him in nervous curiosity. He looked into blue eyes for a long moment as he gathered himself, and tried to find a course of action the little girl could comprehend.

"Tali," he started, running his hand through her brown curls, "do you remember the Memories I tell you before bed?"

She nodded. "All of 'em."

"And you know how they always have that one woman—"

"The pretty one? The Warrior Princess?"

Gibbs blinked. "Warrior Princess?" He hadn't heard that one before. "Where did you hear that?"

"Uncle Tony," came the succinct response. _Of course_, Gibbs thought to himself.

"Well, that lady from the Memories, she's been missing for a really long time. When I went on my trip, I found her. She's the lady I was carrying into Sanctuary."

Tali's eyes widened even more. "She's the lady from the Mem'rees?" Her voice was awed, with the faintest hint of excitement. But then her expression fell. "She didn't look like a Warrior Princess."

"That's because she's very hurt, and very sick," Gibbs answered softly. "Even heroes get sick, pumpkin."

"Will she be okay?"

And there it was.

The question of all questions— the one that he couldn't answer. He knew what he wanted the answer to be. He knew what the answer would have been had she asked him three days ago. But now, after seeing what he had just seen—a delirious Ziva suffering through a crude surgery—with nothing more than hopes and should-be's as to the effectiveness of her treatment…

He didn't know.

"I hope so, Princess," he murmured softly, wrapping his arms around Tali for another hug. "I hope so."

Small arms wrapped around his neck, and soft hair brushed against his nose. Gibbs could smell the faint fragrance of the soap Abby had used to wash her earlier that morning, and vaguely wondered how _he_ smelled at the moment. But the words he heard next shoved the mundane thought roughly from his mind, and sent a rush of sad relief through his bones.

"She'll get better, Daddy," the small girl said simply, sure in her newfound belief. "Heroes _always_ get better."


	18. The Wait

_A/N: Here it is, as promised. I know, it's a little later than I originally intended, but hopefully it's worth it! Enjoy!_

* * *

Gibbs stayed with Tali for a while longer, allowing her presence to calm him. But when she finally told him he smelled—an observation that was followed by a mischievous giggle—he stood and made his way back to the House, slinging her over his shoulder as he went. Her little feet kicked in the air as she laughed in delight, and he allowed a grin to cross his features for the first time in what felt like years. They returned to the House together, but Abby intercepted them before they could walk through the front door.

"Auntie Abby!" Tali squealed. "I'm potatoes!"

Gibbs watched Abby's lips crease into a tight, forced smile, and knew in an instant that being in the House had been too much for the scientist. "You mean you're a sack of potatoes?" Abby responded.

"That's what I said!" Tali returned, giving another squeal as Gibbs swung her back down onto her feet.

Abby knelt, so that she could look the little girl in the eye. "Tali, how would you like to have a sleepover with Sergei for a couple of days?"

"Really?" The excitement was tangible in the girl's voice as she heard her best friend's name mentioned. "Will he show me where he gets the berries?"

Gibbs blinked in relief, grateful that he would not have to worry about answering any questions of _why_ from his daughter—for a few days at least.

"Maybe if you ask really nicely," Abby replied, her voice less strained than it had been before. "But that's up to Sergei."

Tali looked ready to respond, but whatever she was about to say went out the window when the Russian in question emerged from the House, a bag of Tali's things in his hands.

"Big Bear!" Tali exclaimed excitedly, dashing over to jump into his arms. "You're back!"

The big Russian chuckled at the familiar pet name, and swooped the child up into his arms. "Yes, Little One."

"I missed you!"

"And I you," Sergei replied, returning Tali's hug. He gave Gibbs a long look, and then a nod. _No change._ Gibbs nodded in understanding, and then the Russian's attention was back on Tali. "Are you ready to come stay with me for a few days?"

"Uh huh! Can you show me where the berries are? I like the berries you give me!"

"Ah, but would they be as sweet if you got them yourself?"

Gibbs didn't get a chance to hear the girl's response before the duo was moving off. He would have been offended, had he not been grateful that Abby had managed to take care of Tali's sleeping arrangement without him asking. In all honesty, he hadn't even considered the implications of Ziva's presence in their bedroom. He didn't want Tali seeing Ziva as she was—her delirium would only confuse the child, if not frighten her outright. And if Ziva didn't make it…

No. She _would_ make it.

Tali's innocent words echoed in his mind. _Heroes always get better_. Well, Gibbs hoped his daughter's simple faith would prove true. Perhaps they all needed a little more of what she had. Faith.

Looking at Abby, Gibbs knew that her usual optimism couldn't hold up against the reality she had just witnessed. Ziva was hurting, back from the dead. Her features expressed vulnerability in the wake of having the world tilted off its axis. She had resigned herself to having lost yet another best friend, and had accepted the heartbreak. But that old scar had just been ripped wide open, and the wound was just as raw and tender as it had been the day of the Evacuation.

"Everyone is upstairs," she said softly, her voice shaky. "They want answers, Gibbs."

Gibbs nodded. "We'll assemble for a Council meeting in ten minutes, and explain everything." Looking intently at the younger woman's features, he moved closer in concern. "You been up there yet?"

Abby shook her head. "Not yet… I can't, Gibbs. I'm sorry, I just can't—"

"Hey." Gibbs pulled her into a hug, quelling her wavering platitudes with the warm contact. "You don't have to explain yourself, Abs."

"But she's my friend," she whispered. "She's strong enough to Survive, I should be strong enough to go see her."

"She wouldn't know you were there even if you did go, Abby," Gibbs reassured her. "And she won't think any less of you if you hold off on seeing her for a bit. Take the time to get used this while you can. She's going to need your help once she gets better."

"Better?" Abby pulled away in surprise, wiping her eyes.

Gibbs offered a small grin. "Well, yeah, Abs. You didn't think a little fever was going to take her out, didja?"

"A little fever, huh?" she sniffed, returning a tiny smile of her own. Gibbs knew she knew he was trying to comfort her by downplaying the situation, but she went along with it anyway, allowing his words to calm her. "No… no, I guess I didn't."

"Good. 'Cuz she would've kicked your butt three ways from Sunday if you did." Abby gave a short laugh. "She'll need you, Abby. You're right—you're her friend. And I won't be able to be with her as much as I'll want to once things calm down. I'll have to go back to Supervising around here, but she's going to be healing for a long time. And you're the best one to help her. She trusts you."

Wide green eyes regarded him for a long moment. Finally, she nodded. "And I'll be there when the time comes. I promise."

"Atta girl," Gibbs said with a grin, pulling hr close for one last hug. "Thanks for helping out with Tali." He sighed as he pulled away. "I need to go to her Abs."

"I know. She needs you. I'll make sure Tali stays out of trouble."

"Thanks." He turned to move back into the House, but Abby's hand on his arm stayed him a moment longer.

"Take good care of her, Gibbs." Her voice was suddenly strong, without even a hint of the tears that still sparkled in her eyes. It was not a plea, not a request. It was an order.

And it was an order Gibbs had every intention of fulfilling.

---

Ten minutes later, after seeing for himself that Ziva was sleeping—albeit fitfully—Gibbs stood in the Living Room, looking at the solemn expressions of the assembled Council. Tim sat on the arm of the couch, while Abby occupied the nearest seat cushion. One arm looped around her slender shoulders, his hand moving in comforting circles while her own long fingers gripped his knee tightly.

Tony stood alone, much to Gibbs' surprise. But then, the Voice doubted Rosie was fully aware of who Ziva was. She'd been featured in many a Whisper, but her disappearance had affected Tony a great deal, perhaps too much for him to be able to give his lover the scoop on his former partner. Looking at the man now, Gibbs wondered if leaving Rosie out had been the best thing for him, but he refused to make that call for DiNozzo.

Palmer remained upstairs with Ziva, allowing Ducky to join their impromptu Council meeting. The older man looked infinitely more weary than he had seemed only an hour ago, when Gibbs had first seen him among the Residents. Of all the Council besides Gibbs, only the Doctor had seen the extent of the damage, and the weight of that knowledge weighed heavily on his shoulders.

But Gibbs steeled himself, and with a deep breath, began the task of telling the story of how his Mission had been so drastically altered. He skipped the Journey into the City, and went straight to what they had found when they'd reached D.C. He told them of the destruction they'd witnessed, and the dead, empty streets that had slowly come alive with the presence of more Bloods than any of them had ever seen. He told them of how the Bloods were unified, acted as a unit and _not _as a mass of independently motivated psychopaths, under the strong hand of their new leader.

The team barely remembered Damon Werth, so many years after the fact. But they acutely remembered the injuries they had sustained in meeting him. Even Abby recalled Tony's broken nose, and McGee's dislocated shoulder. Her pale lips quivered as she remembered how Ziva had so fervently defended the Corporal's actions, how he shouldn't be vilified for how he had been trained.

Any jokes Tony and McGee may have once had about their teammate's potential affection towards the unstable Marine vanished in an instant when Gibbs described the condition in which she'd been found. He'd left out the details, about the Games, and what he suspected Werth might have used her for. But he did reveal that it had been Werth who had slashed her ankles—an injury all but Ducky had missed in their initial, brief glimpse of her.

By the time he had finished his story, Abby's green eyes were full of tears that trailed down her cheeks before dripping from the edge of her jaw. Tim held her close, offering silent support even as his own eyes darkened with uncharacteristic rage. Tony, without the calming presence of his wife, looked ready to kill. His hands were jammed deep inside the pockets of his loose-fitting jeans, the tension of his tightly clenched fists evident along the entire length of his arms. He nearly quivered with the need to get his hands on something to destroy, and Gibbs gave him ten minutes before his fist began putting holes in the wall.

Ducky, ever the stoic one, was the first to speak after Gibbs' story had ended.

"What do we do now?" the Scotsman asked, his voice heavy with sympathy and pain for what the young woman had been through.

Gibbs sighed. "We stay patient. We give her the support she needs, _anything_ she needs. There will be no rumors—all the Residents need to know is that she Survived the Bloods. If they know more, some might question her loyalty. And she doesn't need that."

"But if it looks like we're trying to hide it, isn't that just as bad?" Abby asked. "She didn't do anything wrong, Gibbs. She did what she had to. That's all that counts."

"That's all that counts," Gibbs agreed. "And that's all they need to hear. The details are unnecessary."

He looked at her, and after a moment's hesitation, she nodded. "You're right."

"What's her prognosis, Ducky?" Tony asked, speaking up for the first time since the meeting started. His tone was dull, weighted with the realization he may not want to know the answer. But Ducky answered anyway, honest as always.

"If she survives the infection, she should make a full recovery. Sergei's care of her damaged tendons was exemplary, and if rehabilitated properly, I can foresee no complications in her regaining her ability to walk. But her fever is most worrisome. Her malnourishment and dehydration have severely weakened her immune system. She will have a hard time of it, but if she can pull through then it is likely that, through a healthy diet and appropriate exercise, she should return to full health."

A tense silence filled the House, as the team absorbed what Ducky was telling them. Gibbs could tell just by looking that they wanted to believe him. They wanted to believe that it could be so easy. Because Ziva wouldn't let a fever take her out, no way, so essentially he was telling them that she would be right as rain—in time.

But life wasn't that simple. Not anymore. Not since they'd had to Scavenge and Forage and fight against nature and humans alike for every day they managed to Survive. She couldn't be dead for two years and then come back and be okay. As much as they wanted it to be true, the world just didn't work that way anymore.

And yet, Ziva _had_ been dead for two years. And here she was. Wounded, sick, but _here_.

Alive.

And maybe, just maybe, she would be another exception to the cruel world they found themselves in. Maybe she _would_ return to her former strength, and resume her duties as the Shadow, as Gibbs' second-in-command. She would prove Ducky right and pull through with flying colors, and their friend would be back in their lives, after they had resigned themselves to never seeing her again.

Gibbs squared his shoulders, Tali's reassuring words echoing in his mind like a mantra. _Heroes always get better_. Could fairytales really come true in their crazy, messed-up world? Even he had his doubts, but he knew that he had no other choice than to believe they could.

"I want you all to be visible for the next couple days," he said finally. "I'm going to be spending most of my time here, until Ziva's condition changes. That means it's up to you guys to make sure the Residents follow the regular schedule, try to make things as normal as possible. No details," he reminded them.

The Council nodded in understanding. When he was sure none of them had any more questions, Gibbs left them, padding up the stairs to the familiar bedroom that housed an unfamiliar sight. Palmer had situated himself in the armchair next to the bed, his gaze fixed on Ziva's distressed features.

She was still sleeping, Gibbs was pleased to see, though it was obvious that her unconsciousness was not as blissful as he hoped it would be. Her breaths came short and quick, a further testament to her discomfort, but except for the faint tremor of the shivers that wracked her body, she was blessedly still, a welcome sight after witnessing her feeble thrashing not an hour before.

A thin blanket had been draped over her, covering her from toe to hip while leaving her arms free and unrestrained. Gibbs could see that pillows had been situated under her lower legs, elevating her wounded ankles. The pillows Gibbs had placed under her shoulders earlier were still in place as well, and the IV in her hand was still delivering its feast of saline and antibiotics to her bloodstream.

As soon as Gibbs entered the room, Palmer had moved to rise from the chair, but Gibbs waved him back. He opted instead for a seat on the bed itself, taking Ziva's right hand in his. He felt the calluses of her fingers scrape against his, and her skin was abnormally warm under his touch. But Gibbs barely noticed. Relief washed through him, instead of disgust, and he simply sat there, gazing at her.

He lost track of how long he sat there. He didn't notice when Ducky relieved Palmer of his post, nor did he see Abby peek her head inside the room to finally catch a glimpse of her ailing friend. He didn't hear Tony receive a whispered update from Ducky, or McGee's quiet delivery of evening chow—Rations Gibbs didn't even think of touching.

What Gibbs did notice was the thin white scar the crossed the back of Ziva's bony hand. It was old, long-healed, and impossible to judge how deep it might have been originally. He noticed, for the first time, how both the ring and little fingers of her right hand were warped and twisted. The skin was scarred and pitted, stretching tightly over the broken and fused bones.

To Gibbs' keen eyes, they had been fractured, and someone—possibly Ziva herself—had tried to realign them. But the end result was a pair of crooked fingers that couldn't straighten completely, permanently bent despite her limp frame. He refused to consider what may have caused them to break in the first place, or the pain she must have endured during the long healing process. More than likely, they still pained her even now, when not eclipsed by the gash on her stomach.

He tore himself away from her only long enough to tuck Tali into bed over at Sergei's. It didn't take long, since the Russian was more than adept at wearing the little girl out to the point that she was asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. But he took the time to finish a Memory anyway, taking comfort from remembering Ziva as she had once been, unscarred and unharmed.

As soon as it was over though, Gibbs immediately returned to the House, only to find that Ziva's earlier peace had vanished once again. She writhed weakly on the bed, her head thrashing from side to side in the throes of a panicked nightmare. Even Gibbs' comforting touch on her hand and forehead wasn't enough to fully pull her out of it, but after several long minutes, she quieted.

Soon, she only whimpered pitifully under the twisted blanket. Gibbs stroked her tangled hair soothingly while Ducky checked her wound, looking for any additional damage the frenetic movement may have caused. A silent shake of the head reassured Gibbs—no additional damage. It wasn't the only nightmare they helped her through that night, or the two nights that followed, nor was it their only concern.

They struggled to get her to drink, recognizing that the IV may not be enough to replace the fluid she was losing when her stomach rebelled, its meager contents too much for her to handle. But she was resistant to their ministrations, unable to recognize the hands that held her and pressed the glass of water to her lips. But somehow, they managed to coax her to sip occasionally, and as much as they hated to admit it, it was all they could do for her.

She vomited multiple times over the next few days, which only served to concern Ducky more. Her condition rested on their ability to keep her hydrated, and it seemed as though her body was consciously working against them. For three long days the fever tore through her emaciated frame, keeping them all on their toes by alternating bouts of heavy coughing with shivers of near-seizure magnitude.

The only instances that Gibbs left her side were to follow his routine with Tali. Ducky was the one who notified him of the time—morning, noon, and night—and it was Abby who brought Tali back to the House so that he never had to go farther than the front porch. The small girl always asked about the Warrior Princess, but Gibbs was unable to provide any news worth sharing. He couldn't tell her that Ziva was in fact worsening, that the fever seemed to be proving too much for her to handle.

But finally, in the early hours of the fourth morning after their return to Sanctuary, the fever broke.

The sheets beneath her and the blanket covering her lower body became drenched with her sudden sweat, and for the first time in days, Gibbs could truly breathe easily. And when Ducky took a look at the wound on her stomach, and softly told him that it was healing well—that _she_ was healing well—his spirits soared. Almost immediately, it seemed, her temperature returned to normal, and the shivering stopped when the sweating had started. As a precaution, they switched out the dampened blanket for a heavy one, to ward off any chill that might come from her now sweat-slicked skin.

And in those moments of growing relief, as her temperature remained normal, it seemed everything else had a chance to remedy itself. She relaxed finally, and when offered water, she did not fight them. And the water actually stayed in her stomach, though they kept the bucket nearby just in case. But her stomach remained settled, and her features slowly softened, until Gibbs was certain that she was finally resting peacefully.

Every so often, her eyes would flutter open, and Gibbs was right there to explain things to her, but each time they drifted shut again before anything could be said. But Gibbs was grateful—it was obvious she needed the rest, and Ducky reassured him that her exhaustion was to be expected. So he waited patiently next to her, with a ghost of a smile tickling his lips that seemed to be contagious.

Each member of the Council that visited them that morning left with a similar smile, or one more obvious. Tony's was the widest of the bunch, unabashed in his joy for his partner's improving condition. Abby and McGee had come up together to check on her, and upon hearing the good news, shared an affectionate embrace that Gibbs would have growled at had it been any other occasion. Ducky and Palmer had shared twin grins of relief, fully relaxing for the first time in days.

She rested for another three days, in a fitting example of reciprocity. Gibbs began to worry after the second morning dawned with no visible change, but Ducky reassured him that it was normal, even preferable, for her to sleep so long and so heavily. Her body was recuperating, the doctor explained, and the most efficient means with which to do it was sleep.

So Gibbs remained calm, and followed the he had followed for the past week. And he took joy in telling his daughter the good news, and relief in seeing the excitement in those familiar blue eyes when she heard the Hero was going to make it. Surprisingly, Tali didn't complain once about how long she had been banished from her own home in order to make room for Ziva. Like an angel, she asked only about the Warrior Princess and when she could meet her, to which Gibbs could only offer a proud and hopeful smile.

It was during his noon visit with Tali on the sixth day after their return to Sanctuary that Palmer came sprinting out of the house to find him. The quick whisper that only Gibbs could hear was followed by the Voice giving Tali an apologetic and happy kiss before passing the child off to Abby, whose own features were creased into a beaming smile. And then Gibbs was back in the House, climbing the stairs and traversing the hallway as quickly as he could.

He heard the soft sound of McGee's voice in the silence of the House, speaking unintelligible words of comfort. And when he turned into the room, he found the younger man seated in the armchair, pulled close enough to the bed so that he could easily clasp Ziva's hand in his. A comforting smile crossed the Storyteller's lips, and his eyes danced with warm delight. The younger man looked up at Gibbs' arrival, a familiar goofy grin on his lips, and to Gibbs' elation, the head of dark curls resting on the pillows tilted up towards him.

Brown eyes regarded him tiredly, but they were blessedly clear of both fever and pain. And then chapped lips curled into a tiny smile, and there was nothing else he could do but fall to his knees beside the bed, and take her hand in his.

McGee had wisely extracted his own hand, and moved to the door in order to give the couple their privacy. Ducky joined him, briefly clasping Gibbs' shoulder as he left. Gibbs barely noticed, his attention focused solely on the woman twinkled tiredly back at him.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. But then, three thin fingers curled around his, enveloping the appendages with a gentle warmth that had nothing to do with fever. It quickly flooded his entire body, and when he saw a silent tear leak from the corner of her eye, he felt his own composure start to crumble.

Not trusting his voice, Gibbs brought her hand up, and pressed a kiss to her scarred knuckles. She gave a firmer squeeze in response, her grip almost growing desperate. Gibbs reached up to brush her tears away, and then let his hand linger, tracing the line of her cheek with a tender touch as he forced himself to drag a deep breath past the growing lump in his throat.

"Welcome home, Ziver."


	19. The Awakening

She couldn't stay awake long.

The effort it'd taken to curl three fingers around his hand, even to smile at him, had exhausted her. Within moments of his return to the bedroom, she was asleep once more, much to Gibbs' disappointment.

He understood her need to rest. He knew that it was necessary for her recovery. He accepted the fact that the more she rested, the quicker she would heal.

But that did nothing to stem his desire to speak with her.

The few words they'd shared on the journey home to Sanctuary—before the morning his heart nearly stopped when she wouldn't wake up—now seemed insufficient. He had so many things to tell her. Two years worth of words he'd kept to himself, voicing them only when he was certain no one could overhear. He'd turned those words into prayers, hoping that she'd be able to hear wherever she'd gone.

But she wasn't dead. She was alive.

And it was a relief to know that she'd never heard his prayers. He had to tell her all those words himself. And he didn't want to wait any longer. He'd had to wait two years—a lifetime, in this world that had been forced upon them.

But he did wait.

There was nothing else he could do. He remained by the bedside for hours, eyes glued to her slumbering form, searching for any indication that she was ready to wake. But aside from the occasional flicker of her eyelids, she remained still as stone. Even the rise and fall of her chest, reassuring as it was, was nearly indiscernible it was so slight.

For hours and hours he waited.

He sprinted to Sergei's in order to put Tali down for the night, and then sprinted back only to find that Ziva hadn't stirred. He resumed his post in the easy chair beside the bed, leaning forward onto his knees to take her limp hand in his.

Eventually, however, nature called.

And when he returned from the head, he bypassed the chair in favor of sitting directly on the mattress beside her. Automatically his hand returned to hers, but the moment his skin brushed hers he knew something had changed.

Frail fingers flashed, and suddenly his wrist was clasped in a vise-like grip. And before he could blink his hand was shoved away with as much force as Ziva could muster, which in her condition meant that his hand merely returned to his lap, but Gibbs could not ignore the ferocity with which she'd attempted to move, even in her now semi-conscious state.

She murmured something unintelligible as she feebly continued to push away the hands that instinctively drifted towards her. The words were slurred, muttered, and indecipherable—save for one.

"_Damon_."

The whispered name drifted to his ears, and was instantly recognized, sending a flood of rage through Gibbs' consciousness. He froze, unable to think past the blood roaring in his ears. But somewhere, somehow, he was able to recognize that she didn't _want_ Werth. She wasn't _asking_ for him.

She thought he _was _Werth.

She thought he was her captor and had warded off his perceived advances as violently as she could manage. And that comforted him just enough to acknowledge the flash of pride that sparked within him.

Another second passed, her murmured confusion refusing to abate, and that additional second was a second too long for Gibbs.

"Ziva," he called softly. His intention was to gently wake her—not to distress her further by scaring her. But the simple utterance of her name did nothing to soothe her.

"C'mon, Ziver," he said more forcefully. "It's me. It's Jethro. You're safe. Wake up for me, okay? Wake up."

This time, his words seemed to get through to her. And after a moment, her eyes blinked open again.

At first, they were clouded with confusion and wariness. Gibbs' position on the bed prevented him from being in her immediate line of sight, and her gaze darted around the unfamiliar room with what Gibbs could tell was a growing sense of panic. He moved to offer comfort before it fully set in, but the movement had the opposite effect.

It startled her, and her freshly conscious state had her hyperaware and her reflexes on high alert. With the same speed he had seen in the gladiator Games, she twisted to face him, at the same time lifting her torso enough to slide away, putting distance between herself and his close proximity.

A second later the pain hit, and she folded slightly with a soft cry. But when Gibbs instinctively moved to help her, she knocked his hands away with as much fervor as she had woken with. He immediately pulled back at the harsh reminder.

"Ziver…" he voiced instead.

His voice-- and the petname that was used solely by him-- made her pause, and she finally looked up at his features. And as soon as she did, she visibly relaxed. Her hand reached out, and Gibbs' instantly grasped it. He was relieved to find that all five fingers in his palm were relatively undamaged. He was sure he would find scars when he took the time to look, but he could feel that each could bend and straighten as they should.

"—'ro," she rasped harshly, her voice struggling to work properly. But he knew the attempt at his name for what it was.

"I'm here, Ziver," he said, unable to keep the grin from his lips. "It's okay."

"Where 'm'I?" came the slurred question, her eyes blinking heavily. Exhaustion clouded her gaze, and kept her eyes from completely focusing. Her head lifted briefly to look around the room once more, making the links of chain still connected to her collar tinkle obscenely.

"Sanctuary," he told her gently. "Do you remember us talking about it?"

Her brow furrowed, and the top two inches of the scar creasing her features wrinkled as she struggled to recall the events that had occurred after leaving DC.

"Trees," she said finally, her eyes struggling to remain open.

Gibbs nodded encouragingly. "That's right, Ziver. We went through the woods."

He watched as she struggled to swallow. He moved to get her some water, but her grip on his hand tightened, keeping him in place.

"Thaw y'wir Daym—"

Gibbs pressed his lips together. Her coherency was deteriorating, despite his continuing ability to understand her. He knew she would be asleep again in a few moments.

"I know," he reassured her. "It's okay. You don't have to worry about Damon anymore. You're safe."

Her fingers tightened on his.

"Nuh," she muttered. "Nah sif…" She coughed as her voice finally gave out.

Gibbs reached out to brush a tangled lock of hair from her face. It was sticky and waxy against his fingers, but he ignored it in favor to focus on her tired features.

"You _are_ safe. I won't let anything happen to you, I promise." His reassurance seemed to fall on deaf ears as her eyes closed, and did not immediately reopen.

"Ziva," he said forcefully. Brown eyes reemerged from beneath sallow lids. "I need to sip some water for me before you go to sleep again." She blinked. "Can you do that for me?"

"Wa-er?"

She finally showed something that could be considered interest.

"Yeah, water." Gibbs jerked his head towards the pitcher of the liquid that stood waiting on the small table that had been brought in.

She blinked again. "Din urn ih."

This one took a moment for Gibbs to translate. "You don't have to earn it, Ziver. You can have as much water as you need. As much as you want."

She glanced at the pitcher, then looked back up at him. He could see the wariness in her gaze—she didn't believe him. She wanted to, but she couldn't.

"Do you trust me?" he asked her softly.

She looked into his eyes for a long moment, and then finally gave a small nod of her head. He smiled in relief at the affirmation.

Unwilling to release her hand for even a moment, he stretched to grab the pitcher of water, empty cup, and small plastic straw that Ducky had thought to leave out for them. As smoothly as he could manage one-handed, Gibbs poured some water into the cup, and then slowly brought the plastic straw to Ziva's chapped and torn lips.

She was fading quickly, and it was several long moments before she could gather the dexterity to wrap her lips around the tube. But when she was finally able to draw the liquid into her mouth, Gibbs realized that he had neglected to consider her ability to use the straw correctly.

Ziva choked on the first sip, the water hitting her windpipe with unerring accuracy as she failed to swallow in time. Her body spasmed as she expelled the offending liquid, and Gibbs tried to help her sit in order to ease her breathing while she coughed. The metal around her neck tinkled underneath the sound of her hacking, sending chills down Gibbs' spine, but he shoved the sound from his awareness, focusing instead on his wife.

When she had recovered enough to breathe freely, albeit raspily, Ziva slumped unceremoniously back down to the pillows. Gibbs watched helplessly for a moment before reaching out to stroke her matted hair soothingly.

"Wanna try again?" he asked softly.

Brown eyes gave him a scathing glare. Gibbs couldn't hide his grin.

"Okay. No more for now."

"Sleep?" Her tired voice still sounded like music in his ears.

Gibbs nodded. "Yeah, sweetheart. You can sleep now."

Brown drifted shut, but a moment later Gibbs was unable to keep his thoughts to himself.

"Thanks for pulling through, Ziver," he murmured quietly, listening to her steady breathing. "Don't think I'd survive losing you a second time."

He wasn't sure she'd heard him until her hand found his once more.

"Thnks fr cmn fr me," she slurred in return, not opening her eyes. She gave a soft, gentle sigh, and the whispered words that followed were as clear as day, despite her fading consciousness. "Love you. Never stopped."

"Love you too, Ziva," he said. "I love you too."

---

A/N: Oh, gods. Sorry times a million. I know I said by the end of Spring Break, but it's like the minute I said that, my muse took offense at my presumption and decided to flit away for a month or so. And this is a super tiny chapter, more of a filler, really, but I have already roughly planned the next update. I'll try to get it up soon, but I'm refusing to guarantee anyway, lest my muse decide to leave again on strike. But I will say that I really want to get this story done by June. Otherwise y'all will have to wait until late August, which would not be fun for anyone involved.

Thanks for sticking with me!

P.S. Special shout-out to Zivacentric for her unwavering patience with my nuances and random thought ideas. Muchas muchas gracias, mi amiga!


	20. The Respite

_A/N: On a roll! Just a heads up, I think some of the previous chapters were incorrect in some aspects, despite what I originally conceived for this story. So if there are discrepancies, here and there, assume that the most recent update is the correct version/description. _

_Enjoy!_

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The next time Ziva awoke, her features were blessedly clear of fear and confusion.

Gibbs was careful not to touch her until she had recognized him—for which he only had to wait for a moment— so as not to startle her as he had before. And when her brown eyes met his in the early afternoon light, they immediately creased into a soft smile.

And Gibbs was so pleased to see it that he almost didn't notice how the skin around the gash across her face pulled tightly against the unfamiliar expression. Her hand, which had only left his when he went to spend his time with Tali, tightened around his.

"Mornin', sunshine," he said with a grin. If possible, her smile widened.

"Jethro—" Her speech was clear this time, or at least would have been if not for the distinctive dry rattle of dehydration in her throat.

Wordlessly, he handed her the cup and straw, filled with fresh water. This time she did not hesitate to take it. When she sipped the refreshing liquid, there was no choking, no coughing—instead there was only relief in her gaze as the cool water soothed her throat.

"How're you feeling?" Gibbs asked carefully when she handed him back an empty cup.

"Better," she responded, her voice coming more easily now. But then her features twisted into a grimace. "Except—"

"Except what?"

"My back—I can't lay like this…"

Gibbs examined her position for a moment. Her torso was cushioned by several pillows, elevating her shoulders to a forty-five degree angle. "Do you want to sit up or lie flat?"

"Up," came the quick reply. "Upupup." Her jaw tightened as she repeated her request, and Gibbs quickly realized that her back was probably a mess of knotted and cramped muscle at this point. He and Ducky had been so concerned about the wound on her abdomen that they'd disregarded the condition of her back, or which positions she may or may not be accustomed to.

He moved quickly, helping her lean forward slightly as he piled more pillows behind her. When he was certain that they would provide enough support for her, he moved to let her lean back, but at the last moment changed his mind.

With expert fingers he reached down her spine, tracing the knobby vertebrae projecting grotesquely through her skin. He ignored her thinness in search of something else, something he could maybe fix right then and—there. Right around the L5 vertebrae was an obvious, nearly visible bump of muscle hiding just beneath the skin. A Charlie horse if he'd ever seen one, and a bad one by the looks of it.

Gingerly, calloused fingers began to softly massage the muscle. He started off lightly, not wanting to risk her further pain, but when she didn't even seem to notice his administrations, his fingers began to press harder. And then, ever so slowly, the muscle began to loosen.

When the last of the tension had disappeared under his touch, he finally let her lean back. She did so with a relaxed sigh, an expression of pure relief on her features as she looked up at him with a smile.

"You must be magic," she said lightly, her eyes twinkling.

Now that she was sitting, it was easy to see the vast improvement in her condition. Her skin was still pale, still scarred, and her frame still gaunt, but her gaze was sharp and alert, and the underlying current of fear that had been present the last time she'd woken had disappeared.

But even with her lips curled into a familiar smile, her brown eyes shining up at him, the change in her was too glaring to ignore. She had not lost her vibrancy, it seemed, but seeing her injuries—and the continuous flashes of her limp and nearly lifeless body in his arms that flew behind his eyes— reminded him that she was far from her former self.

The woman he had said goodbye to two years ago was forever altered, and he didn't know exactly how deep the change was. It had been two years—he would be naïve to think that she'd come out of her captivity with only temporary psychological changes.

But when Gibbs reached out to caress her cheek, this time she leaned into the contact. Her eyes closed, and her right hand came up to gently trap his hand in place.

"Not magic," she whispered, almost to herself. But then her eyes opened again, and Gibbs knew her words had been meant for him to hear as well. "Magic's not real. You are."

Gibbs felt his throat instantly fill with a painful lump. His vision wavered, and he knew that his tears had returned. Her words reminded him how close he had come to losing her a second time, but the warm skin beneath his fingers was a reminder of its own.

She was real too.

He blinked, and the tears spilled down his cheeks, nearly at the same moment that his fingers—the ones pressed against her cheek— became moist as well. And with his tears came clearer vision, and he saw her lips working to keep from quivering as she blinked her own tears away.

And then, it was as if the dam had broken.

A gravelly 'oh god' found its way past the lump in his throat as he moved pull her into his arms. He wanted to sweep her up, clutch her to his chest, but forced himself to be mindful of her injuries. Her arms came up to wrap around his neck, returning his embrace. Her hold was weak, though, another reminder that she was not completely healed despite her improved coherency.

He held her for several long moments, only releasing her when he felt the muscles in her shoulders start to tense from the strain of trying to hold herself up. But even when she settled back on the pillows once more, Gibbs didn't go far. He stayed close, his hands framing her face gently as his eyes took in every new scar, every cut and scrape that left her skin swollen and tender.

He'd come to memorize them in the days of her continuous slumber, but now they were unfamiliar again as they shifted and moved in her wakefulness. The bruises from Werth's last assault on the bleachers were by now a grotesque mottling of dark purple, green, and the beginnings of a sallow yellow, tracing the line of her jaw and obscuring the ridge of her cheekbone. The tattoo, which he was slowly becoming accustomed to, stood out against her still-pale skin, but it now attracted far less attention than the scar that ran across her face.

He could see now that though it was healed, it had not had any help in doing so. The new tissue was knotted and slightly twisted, having grown on its own without stitches. It looked painful, the way parts of her skin seemed to stretch and pull against the newly fused skin, but if it was, Ziva gave no indication.

But that did nothing to curb the burning ire that erupted inside of him.

"I'll kill him for what he did to you."

His words were little more than a growl, but Ziva heard, and instantly her eyes widened, then grew hard as steel. Her hands captured his face where it was, inches from hers, and she stared him straight in the eye with an overwhelming intensity that threatened to swallow him whole.

"No," she said sharply. The word was heavy, resounding in the quiet room around them. "No, Jethro. That anger you're feeling, that hate—"

Dark eyes searched his for a moment, and Gibbs knew that she could see the emotions she listed, and more, in his gaze.

"Let it go," she continued. "No vendettas, no retribution. I'm here, I'm breathing, and we're together. Don't risk destroying that for the sake of revenge. _Please_."

Gibbs saw tears gather in her eyes again, watched them build and then spill over. But her eyes never wavered.

"Promise me. Promise me you won't go after him."

Gibbs hesitated, but she stared him down until he acquiesced.

"Okay," he said reluctantly.

"No!" she forcefully, gripping his head more tightly in desperation. "No, you say the words, you _promise_ me."

One look into her eyes, still dripping with tears, and the fury in him died. In that moment he knew he would not be seeking vengeance. And staring at her, he found he didn't mind letting it go, if it meant this fear and apprehension would leave her features.

"I promise."

He only had to say it once.

Her head dipped forward in relief, and her fingers relaxed slightly, though they did not leave his skin. Instead they stroked his cheek, in silent gratitude that was voiced a moment later.

"Thank you," she whispered. She sniffed softly, and the sound nearly broke Gibbs' heart. He tilted his chin, pressing a light kiss to her forehead. Under his lips, he could feel the rough texture of the deep, unfamiliar scar.

"I'm sorry," he murmured softly.

To his surprise, she chuckled thickly, her right hand patting his cheek once.

"Sign of weakness," she reminded him.

He kissed her cheek, following the moist track of tears against her skin. "_You're_ my weakness, Ziver. Doesn't matter if you see it." He met her gaze once more. "I missed you. God, I missed you so much."

A tiny smile tickled her lips. "You're going to make me cry," she told him.

"Been there, done that."

She laughed again, the sound music to his ears. He gave a grin of his own. But then, his expression grew serious.

"I want you to drink some more water," he said gently. "Think you can do that?"

"But I just—"

He waved away her objections. "You lost a lot of fluids this past week," he told her. "You're dehydrated."

"But you shouldn't waste water on me," she returned. "If there's any leftover once the Residents have gotten theirs, then maybe—"

"Ziva." Gibbs' voice was warm, but firm. "There's a river less than a mile from Sanctuary. In the year and a half we've been here, the water table's never dropped lower than five feet. We don't ration the water anymore. We don't need to. We have access to more water than we could ever need." He smiled. "Now stop worrying about the Residents and drink."

She took the filled cup that he offered without another word of protest. She grasped the cup gently at first, but when he relinquished his grip on it, Gibbs noticed that her fingers tightened around it possessively. He said nothing of it, though. He simply watched as she sipped her precious water, this time more slowly than before.

"You hungry?" he asked. She shook her head no, and Gibbs accepted the answer for the time being. "Can I get you anything?"

Another head shake, this time accompanied by a wry smile. The grin needed no translation, the gleam in her eye telling him all he needed to know the words she left unsaid—she needed and wanted him, and him alone. Everything else could fall by the wayside.

And as much as Gibbs appreciated and returned the sentiment, he knew that he couldn't let her allow her health to fall by the wayside as well. He would have to keep an eye on her, and act as her voice of reason, just as she acted as his.

Just like old times.

He was about to tell her as such, but a voice at the bedroom door caught his attention before he could do so.

"Boss—"

McGee's voice cut itself short when not one but two heads turned to look at him.

"Ziva! You're awake!" the young man exclaimed in soft surprise. Then he tried to backtrack. "Well, I knew you were awake before, obviously—" He had been the one to see her awaken for the first time after the fever had broken, after all. "—but I thought you were still resting…"

"You got something for me, McGee?" Gibbs asked semi-impatiently. It had been a while since the younger man had fallen victim to his nervous habit of rambling, and Gibbs couldn't help but bite back a grin at the glimpse of the younger, less mature special agent that flashed to the surface.

"Um, yeah," McGee answered, getting back on track. "Tali tripped, and scraped her knee. Nothing serious, but she's asking for you."

The familiar rush of over-protective concern sparked in Gibbs, but it was immediately tamped down by common sense. Just a scrape. But still—he was always the one who bandaged the little girl up.

He glanced at Ziva, who was listening with rapt interest, and saw instant comprehension flood her features.

"Go," she said calmly. "I'll survive ten minutes on my own."

He arched a brow at her nonchalance. "On your own," he scoffed good-naturedly. "No way in hell I'm letting be _on your own_." He stood with a grin that mirrored hers. "McGee—"

"I'll stay here until you get back, Boss," he responded quickly. "No problem."

"Good." Gibbs leaned down, and pressed a kiss to Ziva's forehead. "I'll be back soon, okay?"

All he got was a pleasant smirk in return, before she innocently slurped some water from her cup.

Brown eyes watched him leave, taking swift strides out the door, before they turned and looked at McGee expectantly.

When the man simply watched her in return, silent and unmoving as he stared, a dark eyebrow arched, making the scar on her brow wrinkle.

"I'm not going to break, Ma-Gee," she said slowly, teasingly. "You can sit, you know."

"Oh, I know, I just—" Rapid words began spilling from his lips again, before he caught himself. "I mean—" He stopped again. Finally, he sat, filling the cushioned seat of the easy chair. "Wow," he said finally, his eyes drifting over her. "Ziva, you—"

He gave her a smile. "You're amazing," he finished finally.

"Amazing?" she echoed curiously.

"Yeah," he affirmed. "A couple days ago you could barely keep your eyes open longer than ten seconds. Now you're fully coherent, sitting up, drinking… Anyone else would probably still be unconscious." He grinned shamelessly. "But you never were one to follow the norm, especially when it came to personal injury."

"I think I heard a compliment in there somewhere," Ziva teased, lowering the cup to her lap as she looked at her friend.

"Oh, there definitely was," he assured her.

But there the banter stopped.

His expression grew serious, accentuating the hard line of his jaw that had developed in the years since her death. Well, her _disappearance,_ he supposed as he looked at her. She had never really died, had she? And seeing her own eyes pass over his form, he knew that she saw the changes in him as easily as he saw the changes in her.

"I'm really glad you're not dead, Ziva," he said bluntly, breaking the silence between them half on impulse.

If he'd said something like that two years ago, he knew she would have come back with some stinging quip that would make him grin knowingly. But now, in that room, she only gave him a tired smile.

"Me too, Tim," she responded softly. She nodded once at him, accepting his sentiment while simultaneously telling him that he needn't say anything more on the subject.

And so he decided to change the subject.

"I left the computer at the Warehouse," he voiced. He didn't blurt it out—he'd meant to tell her. He'd been wanting to tell her for two years. And now that she was here, he couldn't wait any longer.

"Tim—" There might have been an apology in her voice, but McGee didn't give her a chance to follow-through.

"No," he interrupted. "You were right. You were right the whole time. I thought leaving it behind in the Evacuation would have been difficult. But after news of what happened in Vector 9 made its way back to us, perspective was the one thing we had too much of. It was easy to make the decision.

"And afterwards, I realized that you were right. I shouldn't have been focusing so hard on making contact with anyone through the computer. I'd gotten so involved in the search, I never fully accepted the way we were living. But after I left the computer behind… helping the Residents with the here and now is more important than the unlikely future I was hoping for." He looked down at his folded hands in his lap. "I only wish I'd realized that sooner."

Ziva gave him a warm smile. "You were trying to help us, Tim," she said smoothly after taking a sip of water. "I never faulted you for that. But I am glad you are focusing on more productive… endeavors." She watched him smile proudly as she took another sip. "So what kind of work does a computer genius do without a computer around?"

"He works with his wife to make stuff that makes Sanctuary life more efficient and more safe," McGee responded with a grin.

But instead of immediately smiling back, Ziva stiffened, her fingers tensing around the cup in her fingers. "Jethro said Sanctuary was already safe," she said carefully, the warmth of her tone vanishing in the blink of an eye. "He said—"

"Oh, nonono," Tim interrupted, scrambling to put her at ease. "Not that kind of safe. There haven't been any unwanted intrusions since we got here. I meant, well… Last week Abby and I finished putting the final touches on a water purification and dispensing system. It's more efficient, because we don't have to boil each pot of water we collect for the river, and it saves us the time it takes to lug buckets of water to and from Sanctuary. It's safer because it purifies the water before people drink it—they won't get sick if they forget to boil it themselves." He shifted closer to Ziva, his eyes warm and apologetic. "I should have said healthier, or something. You're right, _safe_ sounds like—"

"No, Tim, you're fine," she said finally. The tension slowly left her shoulders, but her fingers still remained tight on the cup, though she didn't drink from it. "I overreacted, I shouldn't have…" She took a deep breath, then met his gaze once more. "I'm glad Abby's all right," she said softly. "I think… I saw Ducky, and Palmer, maybe—" McGee nodded in affirmation. "What about…"

McGee watched as her lips pressed together uncertainly. Her gaze lowered, but she finally took a steadying breath before asking what she wanted to know.

"Tony? Is he--?"

"He's here too," Tim replied quickly, his lips creasing into a beaming smile. "He's been by to check in on you every day since Gibbs brought you in. He just never managed to be around when you were awake. He will though, especially if you keep progressing the way you have."

Ziva gave a sigh of relief, an honest to goodness smile on her lips as she relaxed back onto the pile of pillows behind her. "So everyone is alive. They're safe."

McGee gazed at her warmly. "Yeah, Ziva. We're safe. Thanks to—" He censored himself at the last minute, but one look at Ziva told him that she knew exactly what he'd intended to say before tact decided to make an appearance.

"Thanks to me," she supplied softly. Her smile didn't disappear, but a shadow flickered across her eyes.

"Well, yeah," McGee said helplessly. "If you hadn't—we wouldn't have been able to Evacuate in time." He gave a sheepish grin. "Sorry."

"Don't be. That's all I ever wanted, Tim. You're all safe, and that's all that—"

Her words ended in sharp hiss, her eyes clenching tightly shut as a wave of pain washed over her. One hand left the cup to brace herself against the mattress, clenching the blankets in a fist that turned her scarred knuckles white. In a flash, McGee was on his feet, moving closer to offer what help he could, only stop short when he realized he didn't know what was wrong.

"What is it? What's wrong? What—I'll get Gibbs—"

"No, Tim," she whispered harshly. "It's passing, I just—" A pained gasp left her lips even as she tried to assure him of her condition.

"I'm getting Gibbs."

"No, Tim, please." Her hand shot out to capture his.

McGee hesitated. "What can I do?"

"Stay." The low request was all it took for McGee to sink like a stone to the bed beside her. Calloused hands settled over her sheet-clenching fist, which instantly shifted its grip to him.

The motion surprised him, the ease with which she took comfort from him so uncharacteristic that it made him pause. But he didn't overthink it. He focused on the woman in front him, his friend, and resolved to give whatever aid she would accept from him.

"What happened?" he asked tentatively.

For a moment, she didn't respond, and McGee was ready to accept a non-answer in response when she finally replied.

"My legs," she managed to choke out. "I tried to move my legs, and then—what happened?"

McGee gave an inaudible sigh of relief. The pain in her ankles would pass, and it was easy to explain. She must have forgotten, when the fever ravaged her small frame.

"Your Achilles tendons were cut," he said gently. "Gibbs said it happened when he rescued you. Sergei patched you up before you made it to Sanctuary, and they should heal okay as long as you don't try to use them too soon." He paused. "Do you remember?"

There was another delay in response, but McGee waited patiently. "Yes," she replied finally. "It took me by surprise, but—It is the same as when I fell off the Autopsy table."

McGee smiled in relief, and then did a double take. "Wait—what? Autopsy? What autopsy?"

To his surprise, his question earned him an eye roll, though he knew it wasn't directed at him.

"I was taken to NCIS," she told him. "That was where Sergei worked on my ankles." She grinned through the fading pain. "I don't remember much, but I do know that I woke up lying on one of Ducky's tables. I fell off the table when I attempted to climb down."

So she didn't explain her panic, or her confusion at waking alone. But he didn't need to know that part of it. It was unnecessary, and she didn't want their easy conversation to turn tense.

As the pain diminished, she could feel the familiar warmth of his close proximity. Not body heat—everyone had that. Even Damon. But McGee was comforting, unpresumptuous, and softer than Jethro.

A friend.

One who was currently offering comfort with no strings attached, and who had absolutely no capacity for heartless violence. Sergei and Jethro could cross that line if provoked, but not Tim. He was always gentle, and she could feel that gentility permeate the air around him, soothing her. It was impossible to feel tense around him.

Soon, all she could feel was the peace of mind that had filled her before, when Gibbs had been with her.

"Jesus," McGee continued softly. "I would've fallen off too, if I had woken up there." He gave her an easy, if sheepish, smile. "I still have nightmares about it sometimes."

She returned his smile with one of her own. "I think we all do, Tim," she told him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

A quiet moment passed as neither of them said anything more. McGee almost didn't notice that his thumb had been tracing comforting circles over the back of her hand, but when Ziva didn't object or pull away, he saw no harm in continuing. Finally, he was the one who broke the silence.

"I think nightmares are a good thing," he admitted softly. "They used to haunt me, before the Incident, but now… Now I almost look forward to them."

To his surprise—or perhaps, not so surprisingly—Ziva nodded in agreement.

"They're reminders that however hard things seem, they could always be worse," she affirmed. McGee watched as an unbidden yawn made her pause.

"When you stop having nightmares… that's when you know you're in trouble."


	21. The Cleansing

Ziva was asleep again by the time Gibbs returned, and she slept through the night. Ducky came by frequently as the night progressed, to check her bandages and ensure she remained at ease, but he did not sleep in the room as he had during her fever. To the relief of all, she remained comfortable throughout the night, not waking until the light of the mid-morning began to creep through the curtains on the windows.

And when she woke, Gibbs managed to get some soup into her. There was some rote protest from her, but when Gibbs pushed she relented, and her hunger was impossible for her to deny once she took her first sip of the warm liquid. It was just a simple vegetable broth, recommended by Ducky, but Ziva attacked it like it was the last rack of ribs on Earth. Gibbs had to remind her to take it easy, lest her stomach rebel as it had the day after her Rescue. Luckily for him, she listened to his warning the first time he voiced it—she remembered the event as well as he did.

She was able to remain awake for much longer that day, and true to McGee's word, Tony came to visit her, though he was not the only one to drop by. Sergei visited as well, while Gibbs had gone to spend lunch with Tali. He checked her ankles, ensuring his handiwork was holding up, but once satisfied with the stitches he simply sat with her. Ducky and Palmer also visited, outside their capacities as physicians. Ducky regaled her with his usual stories, both pre- and post-Incident, while Palmer stood by and chimed in from time to time.

The only member of the team who did not come by to visit was Abby.

Ziva didn't ask for her, and the others didn't mention it. No one wanted to explain why the scientist had yet to visit her friend—only two were even aware of the reason themselves. Gibbs had an idea, from the conversation they'd had after Gibbs had informed the Council what had happened in DC. And McGee knew from years of knowing Abby, knowing the ups and downs and reading the nuances of her sometimes erratic behavior.

She was apprehensive about seeing Ziva, or more accurately, Ziva's condition. The taller woman _had_ dropped by a few days before, but she hadn't been required to talk with her, or even see her face to face. Aside from the glimpse of her she'd gotten when Gibbs brought Ziva back to Sanctuary, Abby hadn't seen Ziva's face, hadn't seen the scars, or the tattoo, or the bruises that littered her body.

And Abby didn't want to see those scars or those bruises.

It would make it all too real, too tangible. Hearing about what had happened, what little Gibbs had divulged, was more than enough to make her heart break. She didn't need to see the evidence of it as well. But as the day and another night passed, and Abby watched the other Council members come and go, she realized that she was being selfish.

It wasn't about her. It was about Ziva.

It was about being there for her best friend, for helping her during when she needed it the most. Ziva would never ask for help. Abby knew that beyond a shadow of the doubt, which was why she knew she had to be the one to step up, to offer her services as a friend—Ziva's _only_ female friend. But still, the knots in her stomach persisted, twisting her insides whenever she even thought about going down that long hallway to Gibbs' bedroom.

It wasn't until early afternoon the next day, after Gibbs had gone to eat with Tali, that Abby was able to force herself to go up the stairs. She made it to the end of the hallway before her apprehension overpowered her and she hesitated. Just before she passed through the open bedroom door, Abby turned back. She paced halfway back down the hallway before her better sense took hold again. She was being ridiculous. She'd been right there, so close.

Finally, her jaw set in determination, Abby turned back towards the bedroom. But then, before she could cross the threshold, indecision struck once more. This time, however, it was because she'd finally let her eyes rest on her long-lost friend.

She stood motionless in the doorway, staring at the slim figure sitting in the bed. Ziva was alone, Abby could see now, and apparently she hadn't heard Abby's approach. Abby took the opportunity to simply watch her friend, unseen and unheard.

From the doorway's position behind the head of the bed, the scientist could only see the back of Ziva's head. But the curls she had come to associate with her best friend post-Incident were now matted and dull against the curve of her skull, a lackluster shadow of what it used to be.

And that terrified the scientist.

If even her hair was so changed, what would the rest of her look like? Abby was afraid to see. But in hesitating to move into the room, her green eyes focused on the more subtle movements of Ziva's silhouette.

Small hands smoothed over the quilted bedspread, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. Abby heard Ziva's soft breathing, and to her untrained ear it sounded thick, and quicker than it should have been. But it wasn't until a wrinkle-smoothing hand came up to brush against her cheek that Abby first noticed something was wrong. And when a soft sniff drifted across the room, Abby's suspicions were confirmed.

Ziva was crying.

Her best friend was crying, and doing her best to hide it, despite her perceived solitude.

This time, there was no hesitation, no apprehension. Only overwhelming concern registered in Abby's mind as she stepped over the threshold and crossed swiftly to the bed. A squeaky floorboard caught Ziva's attention a moment before Abby sat beside her, giving her a chance to recognize the taller woman before she settled next to her on the mattress.

Tear-washed brown orbs stared at Abby in a startled, wide-eyed stare that rocked Abby to the core. The vulnerability, shock, and the fragile, tenuous emotions just barely under control that were so clearly evident in Ziva's eyes shocked Abby almost as much as the thick bands of tears that traced down her pale cheeks.

"Abby—" Ziva choked out, her voice nearly strangled by her tears. Abby recognized the tension in her friend's words. She was overwhelmed. "I—"

She couldn't finish, but it didn't matter. She didn't need to, as Abby instinctively wrapped the smaller woman in a gentle but firm embrace. And then the sobs came, wracking both their frames as Ziva sank into Abby, her hands pulling the pale woman closer.

Abby could feel the shoulder of her shirt grow damp from where Ziva's chin rested upon it. She could also feel the sharp lines of Ziva's arms, so thin, pressing into her back. It was too easy to wrap her arms around her friend, and Abby found herself unable to give even half the strength of her usual hugs, for fear of snapping the frighteningly frail woman in two.

"I'm sorry," Abby whispered, the words spilling from her lips without censor. Tears stung her own eyes when Ziva didn't respond beyond a coughing sob. "I'm so sorry I haven't come to see you sooner. I should have been here ages ago. I was so stupid…"

Abby continued to hold Ziva as she shook, murmuring apologies and comforts as she rubbed soft circles across shoulder blades that projected cruelly under her hands. But it wasn't until she pulled back to brush the tangled strands of hair from her friend's damp cheeks, that she saw the full extent of the damage.

She barely managed to keep from gasping out loud. She'd glimpsed the scar before, and the collar, but now the full force of Ziva's scarred visage hit her like a kick to the gut. But it was the look in Ziva's eyes that startled Abby the most. The Ziva of two years ago had been stoic, relentless in her defense of the emotions she saw as a weakness. But now, they seemed to be roiling just below the surface. First and foremost was shame, followed closely by the confusion Abby had experienced herself more than once before.

It was the confusion that always accompanied the realization that the world was changing too quickly for you to keep up. They'd all felt it, in the months following the Incident. But they'd grown accustomed to the change, and the confusion had faded into acceptance. Ziva had been one of the first to lose the confusion, to adapt to their new world. Seeing it returned—it made Abby's heart ache.

"It's okay," Abby told her softly as Ziva's sobs began to fade. "I promise." Pale fingers drifted across once tan skin.

Abby's throat closed involuntarily when Ziva pulled away, grasping her wrists and forcing her hands away.

"Don't, Abby," she said thickly. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand once Abby's hands were clasped docilely in her lap. The scientist waited, nervous, unable to say anything in return. "I'm dirty."

Abby's eyes widened and her hesitation disappeared as she immediately launched into a protest. "No, Ziva. No, you're not. What—"

A soft laugh interrupted her, shocking her into silence.

"Abby, look at me," Ziva said with a wry smile. "I am covered with grime, and I smell—" She gave another choked laugh. "How can you say that I am _not_ dirty?"

Abby blinked, then sighed with relief. "Oh, you mean you're _dirty_…"

"Isn't that what I said?" Ziva's brow furrowed, making the scar twist grotesquely as it disappeared under her hairline. "I haven't had much trouble with my English lately, and I'm sure I got _that_ one right."

"You did," Abby assured her. "It's just sometimes, some vic—" Abby cut herself short.

She'd come too close. Much too close to calling Ziva a victim. Technically, the scientist supposed, she was, but she couldn't call Ziva that. Especially not when Ziva was right there in front of her, talking about being dirty because of the grime on her skin and not the mentality of being _stained_. Ziva wasn't a victim, not really. She was a Survivor. Just like the rest of them.

But was that a good thing, or did it mean something else entirely?

Abby pushed that thought from her mind. She wouldn't be the one to bring up those doubts. Nope. No way.

"Never mind," she finished finally. Suddenly, her lips curled into a smile. "I think I can help, actually."

"Help with what?"

"Getting you _not_ dirty." Abby's grin grew when Ziva gave a smile of her own.

It took several minutes for Abby to get everything set up. She found the laundry tub—a large metal thing that was big enough to hold both a stool for Ziva to sit on and the water that would wash away the gritty grime accumulated by months without washing—and dragged it into the bedroom, all while Ziva watched on silently. Abby collected clean cloths and dry towels, as well as fresh clothes from the supply shed for her friend to change into once clean.

The warm water and soap were the last items to be procured before everything was ready. With a gentle hand, Abby helped Ziva swing her legs over the side of the bed. The movement pained the smaller woman, Abby knew by the stiffness in her posture, but she didn't make a sound. Once she was sitting on the edge of the bed, Ziva glanced towards the waiting stool with a wary eye.

"Abby," she said softly, her voice almost too quiet to hear. "I cannot—"

"Oh, you didn't think I was going to make you walk over there on your own, did you?" Abby reprimanded gently. "I was going to carry you, if you didn't mind." At Ziva's slight smirk, she continued. "I know it might not look it, but I've developed some serious upper body strength since you left. Lugging around little kids is not as easy as it looks."

"You mean Tali?" Ziva's tone became the slightest bit hopeful. "You've been the one looking after her?"

"I've been helping," Abby replied carefully. She'd always wondered how she would explain the current state of things if Ziva had ever returned… it looked like now she was going to have to find out. "Gibbs has been doing as much as he can, which is almost everything. He adores her. But, he can't watch her all the time, so when he and Sergei are busy, I keep an eye on her."

Ziva's gaze fell, and Abby saw her shoulders slacken slightly. She stared for a moment, unable to identify what had come over her friend. Was it disappointment? Or shame? In that moment, Abby knew without a doubt that Ziva still cared for Tali, despite having only known her a week before disappearing. Her heart hurt at the thought of the younger woman spending two years thinking about the little girl, not knowing whether her sacrifice had been enough to keep her family alive.

"Look," Abby said, changing the subject before the tears prickling her eyes decided to spill, "let's get this show on the road. Do you need help getting undressed?"

A quiet moment passed as Abby waited patiently while Ziva attempted to pull her shirt over her head. It was barely up to her shoulder blades before she stiffened with a hiss of pain. Abby was at her side in an instant.

"Hey, it's okay," she said. "Don't force it. We have scissors, I can cut your shirt off. We aren't going to keep it anyway."

Ziva gave her the smallest of grins, though her eyes remained hooded with pain. She nodded, and then Abby got to work on the torn garment. In moments it was being tossed to the floor, and a moment later the denim shorts followed. And with another nod from Ziva, her long pale arms gathered the too-light woman up and carried her to the bucket and stool.

Setting her down on the stool as gently as she could, Abby made sure that Ziva could remain upright on her own before pulling away. Skeletal legs rested over the side of the bucket, so as to limit the chance of getting her stitched ankles wet. Seeing her friend's unhealthy frame made Abby's heart twinge painfully, but she refused to let Ziva know she was affected.

It wasn't long before Ziva was shivering in the drafty room, so Abby quickly dipped a clean rag into the warm soapy water.

"I'll start with your left arm okay?" she said gently. She could see the vulnerability Ziva was feeling, in the tension in her shoulders, and the way she refused to make eye contact. Ziva nodded, but didn't move. "Can you give me your hand?"

Brown eyes looked at her then in mild surprise, then focused on the pale hand waiting expectantly. Abby was more than happy to wait until she was ready. Ziva had spent too long having things done _to_ her. If she was going to trust anyone again, it would have to start somewhere. This would be interactive, or it would not happen at all.

Finally, skinny fingers rested in Abby's palm, giving it a trusting squeeze as they did so. Abby smiled, proud that her plan had succeeded. As she began to press the wet cloth against the dirt-streaked skin, she fell back on her distraction of choice—rambling.

"You know, Tali still misses you," she started. For a moment she wondered if she should have started on a topic more neutral, but once she started, she couldn't stop. "I'm pretty sure she almost outweighs you now. She's a lot like you too. She's always running around, can't stand being inside for anything other than sleep. But she's totally sweet. Everyone loves her. She has the greatest smile, and I swear it looks exactly like yours. She was irritable for months after you d—disappeared." Not died, Abby had to remind herself. She hoped Ziva hadn't noticed the slip up.

"She probably doesn't remember me," a soft voice interrupted Abby's soliloquy. She looked up to see Ziva's features creased with regret. "It's been too long. Too many years."

Abby moved the cloth up to Ziva's elbow, and pulled it back down her wrist in smooth strokes that left bare skin in their wake. "It might have been two years, Ziva, and she might not recognize your face. But she knows you."

"What makes you say that?"

"The Shirt," came the simple response.

Ziva looked at her in curiosity. "What shirt?"

"Your shirt," Abby explained. "When you left Tali with me before going to the hospital, the baby was absolutely miserable. She wouldn't stop crying. Finally, I gave her one of your shirts, and she must have recognized your scent or something, because she immediately calmed down."

She dipped the cloth in the warm water again, and then reached up to start on Ziva's left shoulder. But when the smaller woman flinched, the scientist immediately pulled away.

"What's wrong?" she inquired, concern flooding her tone. "Did I hurt you?"

Ziva shook her head. "No, you didn't hurt me," she assured her. "It just, um… I'm a little jumpy, yes?"

Abby could hear the shame tingeing her friend's voice beneath the attempt to disguise it with a question. Her heart went out to the smaller woman, but she sat back on her heels.

"Do you want to take a break?" she asked gently.

Another headshake answered her. "No, please. I'm fine."

Abby nodded, and gently resumed her task. This time, she let the cloth trail up her friend's arm, so that she wouldn't be startled by sudden contact when it returned to her shoulder. Whether it worked or not was uncertain, but this time there was no reaction when the warm water spilled over her skin.

"So," Abby continued easily, "this Shirt. It kept her calm during the first few days of the Evacuation, which was _so_ helpful, let me tell you. I mean, she _did_ start screaming again eventually, and for two weeks she cried whenever anyone but Gibbs held her, but she absolutely refused to give up that damn Shirt. It was like, she knew it was yours, and she wouldn't let go of that last piece of you." She dipped the rag in the water again. "I'm going to start on your back, okay?"

A short nod answered her, and she wasted no time in proceeding. She moved around behind her friend, but kept up her stream of words. She found within moments that the monologue was as much a distraction for herself as it was for Ziva. Because as the dried sweat and dirt and blood was washed away, scars upon scars were revealed. They carved into her friend's back with cruel brutality, and though they were all long-healed, they were painful to even look at. But her words kept the churning bile in her gut from rising to her throat.

"She still carries the Shirt around everywhere she goes. She refuses to part with it to this day. It's a chore and a half just to sneak it away from her to wash it once a month." She grinned. "So even though she might be a little nervous around you at first, she'll remember you. I give it ten minutes before she refuses to let _you_ go."

"I don't think I should see her."

The quiet voice almost didn't register in Abby's ears. But as soon as it did, Abby froze.

"Didn't you just hear what I said?" she asked. "She'll be thrilled to see you. I mean, I understand that you might be a little nervous about seeing her after all this time, I would be too, but you can't live here and _not_ spend time with Tali. First of all, she's absolutely everywhere, all the time. Every single Resident sees Tali at _least_ once a day, and probably averages about five sightings a day. You _will_ see her, and she _will _see you. And she's really smart, she'll probably figure out that she knows you, and it will be really confusing for her if you don't come clean and tell her _how _she knows you—"

"Abby." Ziva's voice was suddenly firm, and was enough to quiet Abby's protests. A silent moment passed as the smaller woman gathered herself. "Abby, it would not be right for me to insert myself into her life. She's been happy for the past two years, and she has people who care for her, and love her. Meeting me would only disrupt all that, and even if she did remember me as you said, it still wouldn't be right."

"What do you mean? Of course it would be right. She's your daughter, she's always been your daughter."

"You have been more of a mother to her than I have been. And it will only be more painful for her in the future if she knows who I am. To be reunited, and then torn apart again—"

At this, Abby stood and moved until she was squatting in front of Ziva, grasping both of her hands firmly.

"Stop it," she said brusquely. "Please, don't say that. I know it might not feel like it now, but you're safe here. Nothing here is going to hurt you. Gibbs won't let it. You are safe." Abby tried to look Ziva in the eye, but brown eyes remained stubbornly averted. "Look, Ziva, I don't know what happened to you these past two years, but I assure you it is over. You're free. You're home."

Her words seemed to fall on deaf ears. Unfocused eyes looked away, and Abby recognized the gaze as one of unshared truth. She knew something that Abby didn't. Or, she believed something to be true that she couldn't bring herself to share. But Abby could see it in her eyes nevertheless.

She didn't think it was over. Whatever it was she had managed to Survive, she still expected it to come creeping around the corner.

Well, Abby couldn't really blame her. It would take a while for that sinking suspicion to go away. And Abby knew that they both had the time to let it go away on its own. She'd be patient, but she would definitely be telling Gibbs. Maybe he would have more luck in trying to comfort his wife.

"Okay, well, we'll work on that part," she conceded finally, giving the fragile hands a pat before getting to her feet. "Let's just focus on getting you cleaned up, okay?"

This time, Ziva nodded, and Abby went back to work. She continued to prattle on about whatever came into her head, but was careful to steer clear of potentially sensitive subjects. The dirt came off, and stories of Sanctuary life were shared. Every so often, Ziva would voice a question, but the rest of it was all Abby. She didn't mind. When she progressed to Ziva's legs, she was careful to avoid going too close to her bony hips. She was also conscientious of the stitches holding the severed tendons together, though looking at the patch job made her sigh on the inside. There would be two more scars to decorate her friend's skin when the stitches came out, to match the shiny lines that already crossed her feet and legs.

In an act of fear on her part, she left Ziva's face for last. She tried to put off looking at the scar that crossed Ziva's features as long as possible. It was too gruesome, to horribly violent for Abby to see and _not _react to it. When she finally got to the softer skin of Ziva's cheek, she'd already had to freshen the warm water twice, so much dirt had come from the scarred skin of the rest of her body.

But as soon as the clean, soapy water dripped down her friend's cheek and over the ridge of her jaw, Abby knew she should have held off on the soap.

A line of sudsy water trailed down to the edge of the brutal metal collar that encircled her throat. And then it disappeared beneath the steel, eliciting a sharp hiss of pain from her chapped lips. She pulled away from Abby's ministrations, even as the scientist moved back herself.

"Oh, Ziva, I'm sorry," she murmured. She set the wet cloth aside, and quickly found one of the dry towels that were sitting ready. She moved to dry offending water from her friend's neck, but before she could make contact Ziva caught her hand in a viselike grip.

"Don't," came the hard command. The sudden change in Ziva's voice made Abby freeze. "Don't touch it." And then as quickly as it had turned to steel, Ziva's tone softened. "It's fine."

Abby hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Ziva affirmed, a strained but reassuring smile on her lips. "It only stings. I'm fine."

"I'm sorry…"

"Don't be, it isn't your fault. I'm sorry I frightened you."

"No, you didn't scare me, I just—I'm so scared of hurting you more…" Abby's gaze dropped to her hands. "You probably think I'm being totally ridiculous, because soapy water is probably nothing compared to what you've been through, but—" A cool hand on her cheek made her pause.

She looked up, and saw a small, but honest smile on Ziva's lips. "No, Abby. It is not ridiculous." A calloused thumb began to brush lightly over her cheek. "It's been a long time since someone has taken such care." Brown eyes held her gaze, allowing Abby to see for herself that there was no harm done. "And for that I thank you."

Abby still hesitated, but could hear the honesty in her friend's voice. "You're welcome," she said finally. "But you don't have to thank me. It's what friends do." She grinned. "So you better get used to it."

Ziva smirked. "I'll try," she conceded. "Now, how about we get the rest of me clean, huh?"

"Absolutely," Abby agreed. She made short work of the grime that coated the hollow cheeks, though she was careful to dab at any runaway suds before they could disappear beneath her collar as well. Five minutes later, the bath was done, but Abby hesitated before handing Ziva the fresh clothes that were waiting for her.

"Okay, you have a choice to make," Abby declared.

Ziva smirked. "And what choice is that?"

"Well, we need to do something with your hair. It's totally wrong for you," she embellished, mimicking the stylists they used to watch on TV. "So you get to decide. You want to comb through it and then wash it, or do you want to cut it, then comb and wash?"

Ziva's brows arched in surprise. Clearly, she hadn't expected a dilemma like that. "I don't know," she replied simply. "Am I allowed to defer to your superior knowledge and skill?"

Abby was thrilled to see the twinkle in Ziva's eyes, reminding her of the robust woman the scientist remembered. "That is absolutely allowed!" she exclaimed excitedly.

"And what does the all-knowing Abby decide?"

Abby pursed her lips in thought, her head tilting as she gazed at her friend. Finally, she nodded. "I think we should keep it long. It'll take longer to comb through, but I've always been curious to see what you look like with long hair."

"My hair was rather long before, Abby," Ziva pointed out.

"Well, yeah, but if we cut your hair, we'd have to cut it _really_ short for it to make any difference. Besides, the longer I comb, the longer I have you as a captive audience, and I'm being totally selfish today."

Ziva grinned. "I'm fine with that. I have missed talking with you."

Abby paused, her eyes meeting Ziva's for a moment in surprise. Then, she smiled shyly. "Me too." A moment passed, and then her eyes widened. "Oh! I just thought of something! Will you be okay to wait here for two minutes while I go downstairs to get something?"

Ziva's brow furrowed in confusion, but shrugged. "Sure," she said simply. But then she grinned. "But if anyone walks in on me, it's your head."

"Deal," Abby replied with a grin. She moved to the bed, and then returned, draping a light blanket over Ziva's bare shoulders. "Here, this will keep you warm until I get back. This room gets drafty, and without that layer of dirt for insulation, we don't want you catching cold." Ziva huffed good-naturedly at the taller woman's gentle jibbing.

"Watch yourself, woman," came the teasing response. "Or I will cut my hair after all."

"Alright, alright! Stay here, I'll be right back, okay?"

And then Abby strode quickly from the room, and trotting down the rickety stairs. It took less than thirty seconds to reach the kitchen, and only another twenty to find what she needed. Within ninety seconds of leaving the bedroom, she returned, her footsteps causing a dark head to turn her way.

"Wow," Ziva commented wryly. "That was not even two minutes."

"Well, I knew exactly what I needed," Abby responded. She held up the two bottles. "Oil and vinegar," she revealed triumphantly.

"Oil and vinegar?" Ziva gave her a skeptical look. "You're not planning on cooking me, are you?"

"Ah, no. The oil will help make untangling your hair a little easier."

"And the vinegar?"

"An old Louisiana home remedy for getting rid of hair lice," Abby explained. Ziva merely snorted in derision.

"I doubt anything is able to live in _this_ mess," she commented.

Abby moved closer, setting aside the vinegar in favor of picking up the comb she'd already brought to the room. "Still, better safe than sorry, my nana always said. And don't worry, I've already got clean bed linens too, to put on the bed after we're done here."

"Well, I did defer to the all-knowing Abby."

"That you did. Now hush, and let me get to work."

And got to work she did. The process was painstakingly slow, but Abby was patient. She used the oil to soften the matted knots of hair, and then combed through each one with a gentle hand. The conversation continued easily, flowing without hesitation between the two women. They both laughed and chuckled, Abby was happy to see—Ziva's apprehension from before seemed to have dissipated. And though it took quite a while to get through all the snags, when it was done it seemed as though only five minutes had passed.

"I need to soap your hair now, Ziva," Abby said finally. "I know you don't want anyone touching your, um… your collar—" The word seemed foreign on her tongue, though she'd spent so many years Pre-Incident wearing the damn things. Looking back now, she hated that she had ever thought they were cool. "But what if we tucked a towel around your neck? It'd keep the soap from getting underneath the metal. I bet that thing really chafes, and makes your skin raw, huh?"

Her eyes suddenly widened as she realized what she'd let slip. She desperately tried to backpedal. "I'm sorry, that was insensitive, I shouldn't have said anything—"

"Yes, Abby," Ziva interrupted, a smile on her lips. "It chafes. And the towel is a great idea. Thank you."

Abby smiled sheepishly. "Okay! Great." She handed her a towel. "Here you go, then." Ziva accepted the towel, and handed back the blanket in exchange. The towel wound its way around her neck, beneath her oiled strands of hair.

"Ready," the Israeli told her.

Abby began to pour the warm soapy water over the woman's dark hair, and the suds cascaded over the oiled strands easily. When half the pitcher was gone, Abby set it down. Her long fingers began to massage her friend's scalp, working up a gentle lather. She grinned when she felt Ziva lean into her touch, her eyes closed in satisfaction.

After a few minutes, Abby switched to the vinegar. She poured it into the existing lather, and then began to massage that into the washed strands as well. She then combed through the dark curls one more time, before dousing Ziva's head with the rest of the soapy water. She fetched some fresh water, and then rinsed the remaining suds from the now-silky hair.

"Oh, Abby. That feels…"

"Amazing?"

"Yes. That, and every other complimentary adjective in the English language."

"Just English?" the scientist teased.

Ziva grinned, her eyes still closed. "Hm… Arabic too. I'll save the Hebrew for when I can take a real bath."

Abby laughed. "Fair enough." She toweled some of the excess moisture away.

"So," Ziva continued, "am I clean enough to put some clothes on now?"

"Sure," Abby agreed. She handed her the clothes that had been procured for her. "The shirt is a button-up, so you shouldn't have any trouble getting into it, and I found you a skirt instead of pants…" She received Ziva's wrinkled nose of disgust with a grin. "Yeah, I know, but it'll be easiest to put on, and it'll leave your ankles bare so that Sergei won't have to wrangle with cuffs in order to check on them."

Ziva muttered something unintelligible in return, but the grin never left her lips. She put the clothes on as best she could, and allowed Abby to help keep her steady as she struggled to pull the skirt over her hips. The shirt, as Abby had predicted, was easy enough to put on. Soon, she was fully dressed, and toweling off her hair as Abby busied herself with changing the bedclothes.

"You'll want to burn those," Ziva pointed out. "Many of us had mice." She stifled a yawn as Abby shot her a confused look.

"Mice?"

"Yes," Ziva affirmed, blinking tiredly. The bath had noticeably sapped her energy, and it was several moments before her brow furrowed when she realized she had misspoken. "No," she corrected herself. "Not mice… the little itchy bugs that crawl on dirty skin."

"Either lice or mites, then," Abby deduced. "Not a problem. We'll take care of it."

Soon enough, the bed was ready to go, and Abby came over to pick Ziva up. There was a mutter of protest, but it was too easy to simply gather up anyways. In moments the Israeli was settled once more on the mattress, and she relaxed back into the waiting pillows with a welcome sigh.

Abby sat next to her, and gently tucked the blankets over Ziva's legs. When she shifted her attention to repositioning the pillows behind her friend, she was startled when thin arms suddenly wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her into a deceptively strong embrace. But she reacted quickly, and in another moment was hugging Ziva right back.

"_Thank you, Abby_."

The whisper tickled Abby's ear, and almost instantly her eyes filled with tears. Unable to voice a reply, the scientist merely gave her friend a gentle squeeze in return. The two women held each other for several long moments, before Ziva finally pulled away, wiping her eyes with a sheepish grin.

"You Residents cry too much," she teased.

Abby gave a tearful laugh in return. "Yeah, we do," she agreed. "And _you_ need to sleep." Ziva's eyes were once again starting to slam.

"No," came the murmured protest.

Abby grinned. "Ziva, listen to yourself. You need to sleep."

"No," she protested once more. "That's not what I meant. You must find Gibbs."

Abby looked at the Israeli. "He's already planning on coming up as soon as I give him the word."

"Could you…" Ziva's coherency was dwindling. "Can you tell him that I want this off?" She motioned towards her collar. "He needs to take it off."

Abby hesitated, and then nodded. "Sure. I'll tell him."

"Thank you."

Brown eyes drifted shut then, but Abby could tell that she wasn't asleep. Chances were, she wanted the collar off before she drifted to sleep. For a moment, Abby simply gazed on her friend.

Without the layer of dirt that had coated her skin, every scar and bruise only seemed more severe. The tattoo was now more defined, and the enthusiast in Abby appreciated the artistry. But it also served to remind Abby of everything her friend had suffered through. She wondered whether Ziva had been a willing recipient of the ink, or whether it had been forced upon her.

The thought of it made Abby's blood run cold. With a shake of her head, she banished the image of Ziva fighting to escape impending, unrelenting needles. She had a job to do now, and thinking about what might have happened would not help Ziva now. With one last look at Ziva, Abby left the bedroom, and went searching for Gibbs. It did not take long—the Voice was just entering the House as she was coming down the stairs.

"Hey," she greeted, her tone subdued. "Ziva was asking for you. She wants—" Tears threatened to overcome her, choking her words from her voice. "She's asked—"

Suddenly, the strain of the past few hours caught up with her. The shock of seeing the full extent of the damage that had been done, of finally seeing her friend up close for the first time since her rescue… It was too much, and now that she was no longer in the same room as Ziva, there was nothing to keep her tears at bay.

Gibbs' arms wrapped around her, and she melted into his touch as the sobs came pouring out of her. A large hand cupped the back of her head, pulling her close. She buried her face in his shoulder, the cloth of his shirt quickly growing damp.

"It's okay," he reassured her softly. "It's okay."

Her head waggled against him. "No it's not," she sobbed. "It's not okay! She—She's too skinny, and there's so many scars—How did she live through all that, Gibbs? Why did she? Why did she let herself suffer so much for us? It's not fair! She should've been here, with us, with Tali! I was able to carry her, Gibbs, and it was like she didn't weigh anything! I shouldn't be able to do that! It's not right—"

She fell silent as she pressed harder against his shoulder. He received it, and murmured words of comfort, stroking her hair as he let her get it all off her chest. After a few minutes, she was able to gather herself, though her tears continued to spill down her cheeks.

"She needs you," she told him thickly.

Concern instantly flooded his features. "Is she hurt?"

"No, no," she reassured him. "She wants the collar off." Green eyes looked up at him imploringly. "Please go get that damn thing off her, Gibbs."

He gave her a tight grin, then pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Gladly," he said softly. And then he was gone, trotting past her on the stairs in his rush to rejoin his wife. Abby watched him go, wiping her eyes as she sniffed to clear her nose.

She hesitated for a moment more on the stairs, and then she turned and left the House, intent on finding her husband.

She needed a hug. A long one. ASAP.

---

Gibbs gently pushed the open bedroom door open. The first thing he noticed was the tub still in the middle of the room, and the pile of dirty linens in the corner. But then the form on the bed turned towards the sounds of his arrival.

Large brown eyes smiled up at him tiredly.

"Hey," he said gently.

She grinned. "I'm clean," she told him proudly.

"I can see that," Gibbs responded, sitting next to her on the bed. He ran a gentle hand over her damp hair. "I was wondering what that fresh soap smell was."

"I know," she returned easily. "I don't smell like me anymore."

"Trust me, you didn't smell like yourself before." He grinned back at her. "This is definitely an improvement."

For a moment, they shared smiles, before Gibbs allowed his features to settle into a solemn expression.

"Abby told me that you were ready," he said carefully.

She nodded, her own grin fading without needing any elaboration. "Yes. I'm ready. I've been ready for a long time." She looked up at him with woeful eyes. "Please tell me you have something to get this thing off."

Gibbs reached into his pocket, and pulled out the pliers-like tool he'd sought out the first day she had woken up. The moment he'd known beyond simple hope that she would live, he'd looked for the tool he'd thought of on the road. He showed it to her.

"I've had this with me for almost a week now," he told her softly. "I've been waiting for you to ask."

"Forget asking," she said curtly, relief evident in her gaze. "Get this thing off me. Now."

Gibbs grinned. "Yes, ma'am."

Carefully, he slipped the edge of the collar between the teeth of the metal cutters. It was just along the side of her neck, below her ear, so that he could avoid hitting the more vulnerable regions of her throat should the cutters slip. With a reassuring nod, Gibbs squeezed the handgrips, making the first cut in the metal that gave with a shrill shriek.

The collar was wide enough to necessitate two cuts to break all the way through the band of metal. Once he was through, Ziva spoke softly.

"You'll have to cut on the other side as well. The metal is too thick to bend it back."

Gibbs nodded in acknowledgement. He crossed to the other side of the bed, and repeated the process. In moments that seemed anticlimactic, the metal was cut, and Ziva's hands were coming up to wrap around the front of the collar.

She pulled the severed half away, only to hiss in pain when the cool air hit the trapped skin. Gibbs could instantly see the irritated skin, red and weeping from constant chafing. As he watched, blood prickled to the surface, though it was not enough to drip down her neck. In another instant the second piece was out from behind her neck, and the two halves clattered noisily to the floor.

Suddenly, tears were spilling from her eyes, though she tried to keep them from trailing down her cheeks. Her shoulders shook from the effort of trying to keep silent, and in an instant Gibbs had gathered her up in his arms, issuing soft reassurances as the sobs came tumbling out. Her hands gripped his shirt tightly, and the flood of overwhelming emotion wracked her tiny frame. She didn't try to say anything, and only the sound of her ragged breaths could be heard in the silence of the House.

He held her until her sobs quieted, and her breathing evened out. When she grew limp in his arms, he knew that she had finally succumbed to her exhaustion. It didn't surprise him—he remembered from his own numerous trips to the hospital Pre-Incident that even the simplest of tasks could be draining after a serious injury.

When he was certain she would not wake, he settled her back down on the pillows. With a glance to the raw flesh of her neck, he went searching for the iodine that Ducky had left behind. Pouring a liberal amount onto a clean cloth, he gently blotted at the skin, disinfecting the exposed wound as carefully and painlessly as he could. Ziva whimpered in her sleep at the discomfort, but blessedly didn't wake. He cleaned her neck as best he could, but opted to not move her to ensure he got the hard to reach areas.

He set aside the iodine when he was finished dabbing at her neck, and then turned to gather up all the dirty linen that had accumulated during Abby's visit. He merely dumped the pile out into the hallway, wanting to get the pungent cloths away from Ziva. He was glad to see her clean again, though he almost wished she wasn't.

Because now, he could see why Abby had been so upset. Even the scars he'd already seen stood out more harshly in his vision, and he could now see the smaller, finer scratches that marred her skin as well. The tattoo on her brow and cheek was now distinct, its edges sharp against her skin.

But he would accept those scars, he knew. He would accept the scars and the tattoo and anything else that might come to the surface in the aftermath of her Rescue. He would watch her adjust to Sanctuary life, and he would delight in seeing her return to the woman who he'd last seen two years ago. She would regain her confidence, and he would be there to help her through the transitions back to normalcy.

Their family would be whole again.

Suddenly, a thought crossed Gibbs' mind. With one last look at Ziva to ensure she still slumbered, he quickly left the bedroom. In moments he was out of the House and making his way towards Sergei's home. He only had to go halfway, as the object of his search was discovered playing near the well, Shirt in hand.

"Daddy!"

Tali's bright blue eyes lit up when she spotted her father, and immediately abandoned whatever had been holding her attention to sprint full-tilt towards Gibbs. Sergei, who stood watch a few feet away, looked on passively as daughter reunited with father for the third time that day. Gibbs swept the little girl into his arms, pulling her into a tight hug as he spun her around.

"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted with a kiss.

"Hi, Daddy!" Curious eyes stared up at him. "Is it dinner time already? I'm not hungry yet."

Gibbs grinned. "No, pumpkin, it's not dinner time yet. I want you to come with me for a minute. That okay?"

Tali bounced excitedly in his arms. "Uh-huh! Where we goin'?"

With a nod to Sergei, Gibbs began to carry Tali back in the direction he had come. "There's someone I want you to meet," he told her softly. "But you have to promise to be very, very quiet."

In what seemed like no time at all, Gibbs stood next to Ziva's bed, with a curious Tali peering down at the sleeping woman from her perch in her father's arms.

"Is she dead, Daddy?" the little girl asked, her voice a dutiful whisper. "Why's she in your bed?"

"No, sweetheart," he whispered back, "she's not dead. You were right—Warrior Princesses don't die. She's just been very sick, and she's very tired."

"Her face is broken, Daddy."

Gibbs' heart nearly broke at the innocent understanding of the scar that traversed Ziva's features. TO eyes that didn't know better, it did look like a point of fracture, a fault line that split her features in two. But Gibbs knew that he had to fix the girl's interpretation as best he could.

"Not broken," he told her softly. "You know that mark you have on your knee?"

"The one I got after falling off the fence?"

"Mhmm," he affirmed. "Her face isn't broken, it's just a scar, just like yours."

Tali's eyes widened. "She must've fell off a really big fence!" Gibbs could feel the excitement coursing through the girl's body. No doubt, she believed she found a playmate who could keep up with her. To his surprise, however, she rested her head on his shoulder, instead of squirming to be free.

"She's pwetty, Daddy," she cooed softly, pulling the Shirt up underneath her chin.

Gibbs grinned. "Yeah she is, pumpkin." He pressed a kiss to soft brown curls. "Just as beautiful as you."

"Bwoodiful," Tali repeated careful, testing out the sound of the unfamiliar word. She looked at the sleeping Ziva for a moment longer, then tilted her head up to stare at Gibbs with wide blue eyes. "Who's she, Daddy?"

Gibbs hesitated, knowing the child knew this woman was more than the Warrior Princess from the Memories. He'd known the question would come—his intention had been to inform the child of Ziva's identity even if it hadn't. But now that he was faced with the moment of truth, apprehension reared its ugly head.

"Her name is Ziva," he said finally. He paused then, taking a steadying breath. "And she's your mother."


	22. The Reintroduction

When Ziva awoke the next day, something had her immediately on edge. Something was different, and different wasn't good. She took a silent inventory, keeping her lids closed and relaxed, feigning sleep.

The pain was there, but moderate— the pain of healing wounds. She was warm, but pleasantly so. Whatever she lay on was soft and inviting, and lacked the perpetual stench of sweat and un-cleanliness she had grown accustomed to.

It was then she recalled where she was. Sanctuary. She was lying on a bed, amidst freshly laundered sheets and blankets. She could feel the threads of the linens because her skin was no longer caked with dirt. She had bathed, with Abby's help, which was why she could no longer detect that effervescent malodor that had become a constant in her life. She'd shifted position during the night, she realized, to revert back to laying on her side— a position from which she could easily protect her vital organs without fully exposing her back.

It was a position she should no longer need, she realized, though she acknowledged that it was possible she might forever prefer that position from there on in.

She was just about to finally open her eyes when something brushed against her face.

Instinct took over, and her hand darted out to grasp a tiny wrist in a steel grip, eliciting a breathless gasp of fear from whoever had been caught in her fist. Her eyes flew open, and were met with wide, startled eyes that almost seemed to glow in the morning light.

It was a little girl.

Maybe three years old, the child stared at her, frozen in fear and startled alarm. The wrist she had trapped in her bony hand had curled into a tiny fist, attempting to retract the offending appendages from sight. Heart pounding with adrenaline, Ziva stared into the eyes that were mere inches from her own.

With sudden clarity, she realized that she knew those eyes.

The skin beneath her fingers turned red hot, and Ziva released it as though it had physically burned her. As soon as she did, the child backed away until her back collided with the wall behind it, and Ziva pulled away as well, pushing herself onto one elbow as she stared that child who had woken her.

The blue eyes that had haunted her since her Capture—those peaceful blue eyes she struggled to keep with her throughout everything that had happened—filled with woeful tears, though the brown-haired little girl did not run away as Ziva had half-expected her to. Instead she stared up with pleading eyes that threatened to break Ziva's heart.

"Don't tell my daddy I woke you," came the soft, wobbly plea. Her tiny lower lip trembled fearfully. "I didn't mean to, promise."

The child's voice was so pitiful, so heartrendingly fearful that Ziva was overcome with guilt for having been the cause of it. She was too used to feeling that fear herself… she _couldn't _be the cause of it.

"I won't tell your father," she reassured her quickly, nearly stumbling over her own words in her haste to comfort the child. "And I won't hurt you. You do not need to be afraid."

The child stared back at her without responding, but brown eyes tracked the movement of two tiny hands drifting up towards her chin. A black shirt hung from one, and the other bore the tell-tale marks of fingers having clenched too tight. It was in that moment she realized that she had already hurt the little girl.

She took a moment to take a long blink, to steady herself with a deep breath. When she opened her eyes once more, a gentle smile had settled over her lips. She needed to earn the child's trust, she knew—to prove that she would not _ever_ harm this little girl again.

"Did I startle you?" she asked softly. After a tense moment, the girl nodded. "I'm sorry for that. But do you want to know a secret?"

Blue eyes lit up in excitement, and the following nod was much more enthusiastic than the first.

"You scared me too," Ziva revealed, whispering theatrically. To her delight, the girl gave her a full-blown smile.

"I was looking at your mark," the little girl admitted, taking a step towards the bed. "I have one on my knee."

Ziva gave a small grin of her own, seeing the opening provided. "Will you show me?" With another eager nod, the little girl's pant leg was rolled up and the bare knee presented proudly, revealing a thin short scar that curved over the smooth skin.

"I fell on a rock," delicate lips explained. "How'd you get yours?"

Ziva froze, though she was careful to keep the smile on her lips. The child's question was innocent enough, but she could not share that story. Not here, not with her.

"Not nearly so exciting a way as you, I'm afraid," Ziva responded finally, her voice light despite her apprehension. "Do you have many scars, Tali?"

The name slipped before she'd even realized she'd thought it. For a moment, she was afraid that she had been wrong, that the eyes that stared at her in surprise were not the eyes that she'd been hoping to see before she died. But then the girl stepped even closer, pressing up against the bed in curiosity.

"You know my name," Tali whispered in awe.

Tears prickled at Ziva's eyes in relief, amazement, and awe at the child she'd hoped to one day find again. "Yes, I do," she whispered quietly, not trusting her voice.

"Daddy says you're my mommy," the child stated simply, without preconceptions. "Are you my mommy?"

Suddenly, Ziva felt as if the air had been sucked from her lungs.

She knew she shouldn't say yes. It would hurt both of them if she did and the worst happened. Claiming Tali would only put the child in danger.

But there was only one answer she could give.

There was only one truth she had ever accepted when it had come to the little girl standing before her with innocent eyes. The eyes which, even though they were blue, reminded her so much of her sister's brown hopeful gaze that it hurt her heart to even look at them.

And then, against her better judgment, her head was nodding in affirmation, even as the impending tears rolled down her cheeks. She tried to stop, but it was as if she'd lost all conscious control of her faculties.

"If you want me to be…"

The whisper was added at the last moment, as a safeguard against resistance and rejection.

She wouldn't force herself into the life that Jethro had created for their daughter, what was left of their dysfunctional family. She wouldn't force her presence onto this little girl, who beyond all logical reason seemed to be perfectly well adjusted in the crazy world that had been thrust upon them. She wouldn't blame the girl for not wanting to share her father, for wanting to keep the normalcy of her life so far.

It would break her heart, but she wouldn't place blame.

But to her surprise, the mattress dipped, and the three-year old wordlessly climbed onto the bed. Ziva watched in shock, her eyes catching sight of the black shirt again, the Shirt Abby had mentioned.

She vaguely remembered that shirt. She'd picked it up before they'd settled in the Warehouse, though she couldn't recall when or where. It had been one of her favorites though, since it had breathed a little bit easier than her sole other shirt. Than the shirt was now torn to shreds in the pits of DC.

Her thoughts were disrupted when arms soft as only child's arms could be wrapped around her neck.

They pressed against the raw skin left behind by her collar, but she was too surprised to do anything more than silently wince at the pain. The short reach of Tali's small arms brought the girl's head under Ziva's chin, and soft brown curls tickled her nose. Her own arms came up to embrace the child, and she felt her cheeks dampen with tears she was glad the little girl couldn't see.

As she held the little girl close, she ignored the strain on her stomach wound from her awkward position and the violent stinging in her neck. It was easy to do so, because underneath the discomfort the knot that had gripped her stomach for the past—did Jethro say two years?— finally relaxed. Suddenly, she could feel peace, and it did not feel like a cruel trick.

It felt right. So very, very _right_.

"Uncle Tony says you're a Warrior Princess," Tali said, pulling away to kneel on the bed in front of her. Her blue-eyed gaze was quizzical, but not accusing.

Ziva's brow furrowed, unsure of how to respond. What was a warrior princess? And why would Tony say she was one? She would have expected a ninja, or simply _crazy chick_. "Uhm…"

Luckily, the child didn't seem to be waiting for a reply.

"In the Mem'rees, you always beat up the bad guys," she continued. "Is that how you got your scar?"

A small hand came up to touch Ziva's left cheek, split by the scar in question.

All of a sudden, Ziva wondered just how gruesomely the torn flesh twisted her features. Every so often, over the past few months, she'd caught glimpses of it on her nose out of the corner of her eye, an annoying hint of what damage still lingered by that single devastating knife. But she had yet to see it for herself, beyond that niggling reminder in the periphery of her vision. Tali seemed preoccupied with it, though with a childlike wonder rather than disgust or horror.

She was suddenly very glad that Abby had helped her wash.

"Yes," she found herself saying. "Fighting bad guys." It wasn't too far from the truth, and it was simple enough to satisfy a small girl's curiosity.

As expected, blue eyes lit in excitement.

"Whoa!" came the hushed exclamation of wonder and awe. For a moment, Ziva expected the child to start firing questions at her, but to her surprise Tali's gaze grew puzzled once more. "Are you still sleepy?"

The question took Ziva by surprise. "Why do you ask?"

"I woke you up. When Daddy wakes me up, I'm always tired."

Ziva smiled. "I don't think I would be able to sleep now," she responded, not truly answering the question.

"Why not?" Tali asked curiously. "It's easy. See, I'll show you!"

To Ziva's shock, the little girl laid down next to her, pulling the blanket over her small legs until she was covered from the waist down. Her small head settled on the pillow, and Ziva mimicked her motions, smiling softly in amusement. Soon both of their heads were laying on the pillow, their eyes level with one another's. Ziva stared into those blue eyes that were so familiar, despite having not seen them in two years, and watched as they closed tightly.

"Watch," Tali instructed firmly. Ziva obeyed, and observed the little girl remaining still as stone, her eyes closed—the picture of sleep. But then one blue eye popped open accusingly. "You have to close your eyes!"

"But _you_ told me to watch!" Ziva returned with a grin, poking Tali's belly as she did so and eliciting a delighted laugh. Blue eyes closed once more, but this time they squinched closed in mirth. There was no doubt that the little girl was ticklish, and soon Ziva's fingers were exploring for any more sensitive spots, and it was not long before Tali was doubled over with gut-busting laughter.

When Ziva began to doubt the child's ability to breathe between laughs, she paused in her assault, instead occupying her hands by brushing wayward strands of hair away from Tali's face. For a moment, she simply looked at her, the child she'd thought lost to her forever. When blue eyes opened to look at her, happy tears shining back at her, Ziva smiled.

"You are so beautiful," she whispered softly.

"Bwoodiful," Tali echoed. "That's what daddy says." She snuggled closer to Ziva's chest, her eyes blinking heavily. Ziva let her come, and even hugged her closer until the little girl's head was resting on her bony shoulder. Small knees came dangerously close to the healing slice in her abdomen, but Ziva couldn't bring herself to care.

"Well, your daddy is absolutely right."

For a moment, Ziva thought Tali had already drifted to sleep, but then another soft question drifted up to her ears.

"Are you anyone else's mommy?"

"No," came the instantaneous answer. "No, I'm not."

Thank god for small favors.

Her answer seemed to satisfy the little girl, for she relaxed into Ziva's hold. Her breaths slowly evened out, and Ziva felt herself relaxing as well. Her hand came up to stroke Tali's smooth curls, unnaturally soft under her calloused fingertips. She pressed a light kiss to the top of the child's head, unable to resist bestowing the tender affection she'd been waiting years to impart.

"I love you, my sweet girl," she whispered ever so softly. She didn't bother brushing away her tears of happiness. These tears, she was proud of. "I have missed you so."

Tali sighed tiredly, snuggling deeper into Ziva's shoulder.

"Wuv you too, Mommy."

---

When Gibbs finally realized the only place he hadn't looked in his mad chase to locate his wayward daughter was the one place he should have checked first, he quietly poked his head into his bedroom to find his wife and daughter sleeping soundly.

Ziva was on her side, one arm folded under her head as an added pillow. Her other hand had been pulled over Tali's waist, the little girl's hand wrapped tightly around several of her mother's fingers, keeping the hand in place. Tali's other arm was tucked under her head in a mirror image of Ziva, and her back was pressed up against Ziva's chest.

Gibbs recognized the little girl's position as one of Tali's signatures. When she had a nightmare, she would climb into the bigger bed, and snuggle up against his chest, pulling his hand around her as a sort of protective blanket. It seemed as though the child had had no qualms about using Ziva for protection instead.

Seeing the two of them together, so close to being perfectly identical in poses and small smiles of content, lifted Gibbs' spirits. Finally, the piece of his life that had been missing for the past two years was back in place. Ziva was home, and, it seemed, had reaccepted her role in Tali's life, just as he'd known she would. There had never been a doubt in his mind that she would reclaim Tali as her own. Their bond was too strong to believe otherwise.

And Tali was too sweet to be wary of the strange woman that had so suddenly come back into their lives.

His family was whole again.

This time, he had a second chance.


	23. The Learning

_A/N: I'm on a roll here! Keep looking for more updates!_

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"I know Ducky said you were cleared to start walking again, but I want you to promise to take it easy, okay?"

Gibbs sternly crossed his arms over his chest as he watched Abby help wrap Ziva's bare feet with rags, while simultaneously affixing the braces Palmer had designed for her. The healing woman was unable to wear shoes because of her still tender ankles, but Gibbs had insisted on providing at least some kind of protection for her feet, despite the calluses that had developed on the soles. Ducky had insisted on providing some means through which to immobilize the Israeli's ankles, so as to promote faster healing. Palmer had managed to service the needs of both with a series of connected wooden dowels and old rags.

Ziva, for her part, was relatively patient, with both Abby's ministrations _and_ Gibbs' well-meaning paranoia.

"Jethro, I am merely going to the end of the hall and back," she told him easily. She had regained some of her color in the past few days, and the bruises on her face were starting to fade. She was beginning to look like herself again. "I seriously doubt that you have anything to worry about."

Gibbs scoffed. "Yeah, you _say_ you're going down the hall, but I know you. You'll get to the end of the hall, decide it was too easy, and then try to press your luck going down the stairs."

Ziva grinned shamelessly, only proving the accuracy of his predictions. "Relax," she intoned smoothly. "I'm only trying to get a feel for these things." She waved towards the pair of forearm crutches that leaned against the bed. Ducky had been unable to find a pair of full-length crutches, but assured them that the forearm variation would serve Ziva's purposes just as well. Ziva didn't much mind either way—she only wanted to get out of the bed.

"Again, you say that now, but if you manage an inch you'll want a mile," Gibbs returned. "Just humor me, okay?"

At that, Abby got to her feet, brushing off her knees as she did so. "All right, there we are! You're good to go!" She retrieved the crutches and passed them to her friend, who received them with a grin.

"Thank you, Abby." Ziva immediately threaded her arms through the plastic band that would help support her arms as she moved, and gripped the rubber handholds experimentally. Her right hand protested when she tried to curl her fingers around the handgrip. Only three obeyed—the remaining two remained grotesquely twisted, sticking out at odd angles. She'd gotten used to the warped fingers, but they had not seemed to grow used to her—she knew the pressure of resting her weight on her damaged hand would turn her hand to fire that evening. She didn't let it dissuade her from her mission, however. She would be getting out that bed if it was the last thing she did.

When she was satisfied with her hold on the crutches, she gave a deep breath. "Let's do this then."

Planting the rubber feet of the crutches firmly on the wooden floor, she gave a heave and propelled herself onto her rag covered feet. Unfortunately, she either miscalculated the force needed or forgot to account for the resulting pain in her ankles, and instantly began to topple forward.

Two pairs of hands caught her and propped her back on her feet, and then continued to steady her until _they_ were convinced she was no longer in danger of doing a face plant. Gibbs remained stoic, but Abby was unable to contain her snort of amusement.

"That was a little anti-climactic," the scientist commented with a smile, which only earned her a glare from Ziva. "But it was an awesome first try," she amended hastily. "Please don't whack me with your crutch…"

Ziva simply rolled her eyes. "Thank you for your support, Abby," she said wryly. "But you can let go now." One pair of hands detached from her shoulders. "You as well, Jethro."

Gibbs hesitated, but when the glare threatened to focus on him, he relinquished his hold. Then she was standing on her own, with only the crutches to support her. She could feel the strain in her healing joints, but with the crutches taking most of her weight and the braces keeping her ankles in place, she knew she would only fall victim to a serious ache at the end of the day, barring unfortunate accidents like the one she had just narrowly avoided.

It took a moment for Ziva to realize, however, that though she was upright she now had no idea how to proceed. She considered the motion of the typical underarm crutches she'd used in the past, and went through the ways she could attempt to recreate it. It was unlikely her ankles would take her weight while she moved both crutches forward, but if she led with her feet she met the same problem midstride.

Perhaps not a pendulum motion as she had supposed. She would have to alternate arms to propel herself forward, so that at least one crutch remained on the ground at any given moment. But what to do with her feet? Dragging them behind her seemed counterintuitive—and painful—and she quickly ruled it out as an option. She let her mind visualize the various scenarios that could accomplish her goal.

What if she—?

Hesitantly, she moved her left arm and leg forward together. She wobbled slightly as her right arm took most of her weight. She saw Gibbs inch towards her, ready to catch her should she fall, but her plan succeeded and soon enough the left crutch was once again planted on the ground a foot from where it had started.

She looked up at Gibbs, a triumphant smirk on her lips.

"Oooh, go Ziva!" Abby cheered happily, pride evident on her features. "You got it on the first try! That is so awesome!"

Tentatively, Ziva repeated the process with her right leg and arm. This time, the movement was smooth and more confident. She looked up once more, and this time it was Gibbs grinning back at her, his eyes shining with pride. There was also a gleam in his eye that made her cheeks tingle as blood rushed to them, and she blushed for the first time in years. Without a word, she swung herself around, and began to propel herself from the room.

Her movements were still slightly shaky, and several times she paused to regain her equilibrium. Each step jarred her ankles slightly, but she ignored the growing ache. When she reached the top of the stairs, she paused, and gazed down towards the open front door that allowed sunlight to pour through. But then she heard Gibbs clear his throat warningly. With a roll of her eyes she turned around and made her back to the bedroom, where both Gibbs and Abby awaited her. The effort had her slightly out of breath, and she sat heavily on the mattress of the bed to reclaim it.

As soon as her weight had shifted to the bed, and off of her hands, the fingers on her right hand immediately flared into agony. Her eyes closed as she sucked in a breath. She set the crutches aside, and brought her left hand over to gently massage the bones in her broken hand.

But when a pair of rough but warm hands settled on her wrists, her eyes opened again to find a pair of baby blues looking back at her. There was concern deep within them, and his hands replaced her own working fingers in rubbing her scarred skin soothingly.

"How fresh are these fractures?" he asked quietly.

She gave him a wry smile. "They're not." Gibbs arched an eyebrow at her. "Fresh, that is. They're not fresh." Gibbs waited patiently, knowing that she would eventually get around to answering his question. Sure enough, she continued a moment later. "It has been two years, or so I'm told."

Gibbs paused. Two years? That would mean the fractures had happened shortly after her Capture. Very shortly afterwards, before time distortion and misconception had set in.

"Ziver…" His effort to keep the pity from his voice was only partly successful.

She gave his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "Abby, could you give us a moment, please?"

The scientist started, but quickly moved towards the open door while offering nervous words of affirmation. "Oh—Yeah! Of course, absolutely. Uhm, just, ah, let me…" And then she was gone, shutting the door behind her.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Gibbs turned back to Ziva, his eyes imploring her to not shut him out. "Tell me," he prompted softly.

She hesitated for a moment, pausing just long enough to gather her thoughts.

"It happened the day I was Captured," she said softly, meeting his gaze with a gentle one of her own. "The day I split from Sergei."

"What the hell happened?" he demanded. He'd been wondering for years what had happened that day, why she hadn't returned home. And now the knowledge was within his grasp—he needed to know. To his luck, Ziva seemed to sense his need, for she continued with a solemn expression on her features.

"We were a mile into our return when we were attacked," she told him. Her eyes were lowered, but not to avoid his gaze. She was remembering, sifting through the haze of memories that shrouded the events of the past. "They got Rider from behind, before he even had a chance to grab his knife. Sergei and I managed to fend them off long enough to run. But I was too slow… the Vipers. My knee hadn't healed enough, and I couldn't run fast enough. I was hindering Sergei's progress and the Medicinals had to get back to the Warehouse.

"I made Sergei go on without me. I tried to lead the Bloods away. I wasn't sure if it worked completely—I knew that some of them had taken the bait, but I didn't know how many there were in total. It became a game of cat and mouse… I had to stay within tracking distance of them, to ensure that they did not lose interest and go back after Sergei. I made it to Vector 10 before I was overwhelmed. Another band of Bloods was there, Harvesting."

"Harvesting?"

Ziva nodded brusquely, her shoulders tense. "We thought they were just mindless killers at that point, Jethro. But they had evolved. They were organized, with a command structure. I almost didn't see it, until I was Captured." She paused. "Their small unit leader ordered this." She nodded towards her two mangled fingers.

Suddenly, it felt as though the breath had been sucked from his chest, and he had to struggle to pull in another breath. "They did this deliberately?"

Another nod. "They slammed a cinderblock onto my hand, twice. They weren't allowed to kill me, because of the Harvest. They were gathering Survivors, taking them back to their base of operations. To be used in the Games, for sport and pleasure. So instead of killing me, they destroyed one finger for each of their number I killed."

"You took two of them out?" It was impossible to keep the pride from his voice.

Ziva gave him a grin. "Actually, it was more like six. But they didn't find the other four until I was already in the city. They couldn't find me then. I was already in the thick of the Herd."

"Wait, hold on," Gibbs requested. "Back up. What's a Harvest, Herd, Games… I don't get it."

Ziva took a deep breath. "When we first met the Bloods, their sole intent was to kill anything they Encountered. But when they Captured me in Vector 10, they wouldn't kill me. After they…" she waved her damaged hand in indication. "They restrained me and threw me into the back of one of your big military trucks. There were already a dozen Survivors in the truck, and they collected another two dozen before returning to base. A full Harvest of Survivors. When they brought us back to base, we became the first of the Herd." She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the words she spoke next. "In possession of the Bloods, Survivors became livestock. A Herd."

Indignation flared in Gibbs' gut, but wisely kept it to himself. Ziva was now gripping his hand tightly, her knuckles turning white. But her voice remained strong, despite her growing turmoil.

"And the Games… They weren't games. Not for us."

Gibbs suspected he knew what the Games were. The Stadium, the gladiator fights, the battle that had led to an injury that had nearly killed her before she had made it home. But he couldn't bring himself to reveal just how much he had seen. It was too uncertain; he had no idea how she would react to knowing that he had seen her at her most ruthless.

He didn't think any less of her for doing what she did. She'd Survived— that was all he cared about. But he had a sinking suspicion that she wouldn't feel the same way. It was too soon to tell how her Captivity had twisted her conscience, or how volatile she might have become.

Gibbs would help her with anything that might have changed since he'd last been with her, but he did not want to risk her rapid recovery with the sudden setback telling her how much he knew might cause.

"When you were in the city," Ziva continued, her voice shaky, "did you see the old Stadium? You took me to see a game there once. Before the Incident."

"I remember," Gibbs whispered.

"It's a killing ground now. He's turned the home of an American pastime into a slaughterhouse. From the moment we got there two years ago, there has been nothing but blood on that field." She swallowed, her throat working against the lump that threatened to strangle her. "There were three who were deemed to be too sick or weak to be of any use to them. They were killed right then and there—dragged to the edge of the grass and then bled dry like cattle."

"Ziver…"

"Some of us tried to resist. We thought that if we made it too difficult to keep us around, they would decide that it wasn't worth the effort to keep us."

"But they wouldn't have set you free."

"No," Ziva agreed. "They would have killed us, or simply stopped feeding us. But they would have stopped Harvesting. The Survivors they hadn't Captured yet would not fall victim as well. The rest of the world would have been spared our fate."

"It didn't work, did it?"

"No." A half-laugh, half-sob escaped her lips. "It didn't. But those of us in that first Harvest… we continued to resist. When the Games started, we balked. We worked together whenever we could, even when forced to fight against one another. We urged the others to Resist as well, to not bend so easily to the whims of the Bloods. To not become the cattle they thought we were. But it was only a few weeks before those higher up in the Bloods' new command caught wind of what we were trying to do.

"They selected twelve of us at random, though over half of that twelve had been part of the first Harvest. The leaders of the resistance."

Her hands clutched at Gibbs' fingers, as tears threatened to spill over her cheeks. He thought she would decide to stop, to bring the conversation to a close. But she took a deep breath and it seemed to steady her enough for her to start once more, her voice stronger than he would have expected.

"The Twelve were moved out into the Stadium, and lined up in front of the rest of the herd."

"A Game?" Gibbs asked.

Ziva shook her head. "No. A Culling. The first of many designed to weaken morale and perpetuate blind, mind-numbing fear. The Twelve were tethered, wrist to wrist, and forced to watch as a Blood went down the line with a pipe, beating each one to death. They were forced to watch exactly what would happen when their turn came."

Suddenly, her eyes were on him, staring him down where he sat next to her. And in that moment, he knew what was coming next. His heart was breaking even before her next words left her lips, and he had to fight to keep his expression neutral, though all he wanted was to crumble.

"I was one of the Twelve, Jethro," she said, her voice hard, but tremulous. "I was supposed to die that day. I was eighth in line. I watched seven of them die."

She had heard them too, even more than she had watched. They'd been beside her, and it was all too easy to resist turning her head to look. But she'd even felt them, with every pull and tug she felt on her wrists as each one fell.

She could smell the blood that had flown through the air with every vicious blow that had been dealt. The first blows hadn't bled, but that fact was soon remedied when the pipe came crashing down again and again. The first blow sought merely to incapacitate, and the unforgiving metal had caused enough pain to bring a full man to his knees. To make a man scream in agony as his skull was split open, and his brains spilled onto the field.

She closed her eyes, hoping to banish the memories from her sight, but in the resulting darkness, the images only sharpened, honed with years of hate and confusion and resentment and guilt.

"When the Blood got to me, he drew back the pipe, ready to kill me, but then— he stopped."

"Werth." The name burned like acid on Gibbs' tongue as he spoke up. It sickened him, but now he had one thing to thank the monster for—if Damon hadn't been there, if he hadn't fixated on Ziva, she would have died that day, in the first Culling with the rest of the Twelve.

And there would have been nothing left for Gibbs to rescue.

"Yes," Ziva affirmed bitterly. Disgust overcame her then, though she continued on, driven by some unidentifiable need to share. "He was watching as well. He must have recognized me, and told his man to move on, to Spare me. And he did. The Blood barely even stopped to think about it. He killed the rest. He destroyed four more people with a goddamn grin on his face."

She could still see the confusion in their eyes, just before the pipe hit them. She could see the confusion, as the last of the Twelve wondered why she had been spared, and the hope that maybe they too would be pardoned so miraculously. And then the instant came when they realized that no such mercy for them, a moment before the agony overcame them, and a moment later they were feeling nothing. Dead, all of them.

And how she had envied them.

Even as she had lain there, pulled to the blood-soaked grass by the weight of the corpses on either side of her, she'd envied them for the peace that had finally come to them. She hadn't known it was Damon, not then, but she'd known that she'd been spared for a reason—a reason she would not like.

Her assumptions had been correct. And her envy for the dead had only grown as the months passed, until she'd remembered the scrawled note she'd given to Sergei.

"I tried to escape," she whispered, her throat burning with unshed tears. "I tried, but he caught me each time. And each time I was punished, either at his hands or in the Games. I—I tried to get back to you, but—"

A sob finally broke free, and Gibbs was there to catch her as her shoulders slumped and stiffened at the same time. His arms wrapped around her, enveloping her as gently as he could as his own tears prickled at his eyes. Her hands clutched at him, and she buried her face against his neck.

"You're really here," she muttered, her voice thick and slurred in her distress, though Gibbs could still hear her clear as day. "It feels like a dream, but even I couldn't imagine a place like this. I've never noticed where we were before. Unless they were memories, all I dreamed about was you. The where never mattered." He held her closer, his hand stroking her hair lightly. "And now I keep waiting for you to disappear again, but you never do, and I know that every moment you spend with me, the harder it will be for me to wake up."

"This isn't a dream, Ziver," Gibbs said, pulled away just enough to look into her tear-filled eyes. "You _are_ safe. He can't hurt you anymore. You're here, with me, and I'm not going to let you go again."

"That is what Abby said."

"And she's damn right. You should remember that she usually is."

Her eyes left his, and guilt immediately surged through him. He hadn't meant to sound harsh, but in his desire to reassure her of her safety, he'd lost control for a moment. She had no need for his desperation right now, he knew. She just needed calm, and understanding.

"Look, I know you might not trust this right now," he said carefully. He'd felt the same way after coming back to the war, and he shuddered to think what she might see when she closed her eyes. He himself had seen plumes of red-tinged sand puffing into the desert sky—IEDs that took one of his buddies with each detonation. "But I will do whatever it takes, however long it takes, to prove to you that you're safe. That you have nothing to be afraid of here. This isn't a dream, and you will not wake up from it. This is real, I promise."

Ziva regarded him for a long moment, and he waited patiently with bated breath as she absorbed what he'd told her. But then, to his chagrin, she looked away. Her hands claimed her crutches once more, and a strained smile curled her lips.

"I think I would like to make another round on these things."


	24. The Acceptance

Ziva stared at the battered woman in front of her, rendered motionless by shock and surprise.

She'd come to the bathroom to relieve herself, taking advantage of her new freedom—such a concept seemed so foreign to her, even now—that had been afforded her with her crutches. The sight of someone in the small room with her had sent her pulse racing and her muscles tensing as she readied to defend herself. But when she froze so did the shadowed figure, and she realized that it was not an intruder, but a mirror.

And for the first time in two years, she had the chance to look at what she had become.

She hadn't realized how gruesome her scar was, even when Tali's tiny fingers had traced over it two days ago. It tore across her face, from the hairline of her left brow, across the bridge of her nose, and down to the edge of the right side of her jaw. It ended somewhere between her jaw line and her neck, and as her own fingers ran over the furrow it made across her features, she remembered the Game in which she'd received the life-threatening blow.

It had started like all the others, but it had ended differently.

She still managed to defeat her opponent, though she still wasn't sure how. She'd caught his knife in the face, and her skin had parted beneath the blade like soft butter. Blinding pain had gripped her, but the blood that had poured into her eyes left her helpless against remainder of the onslaught. Only instinct and training kept her alive that day, and only dumb luck had allowed her wrest the knife from her opponent before plunging it into his throat.

She'd collapsed, and woken some unknown amount of time later, her skin tight with crusted blood that had only been half-heartedly wiped from her face. For days, she'd thought she would never see again, but then the swelling had diminished to the point where she could open her eyes. She wasn't sure how long she'd lain there on her, unable to move through the throbbing pain that lanced through her entire body whenever she did anything more than breathe. She'd thought Damon would throw her away, that he would have no use for a woman who was so disfigured, so damaged.

But she'd been wrong.

The blood and the slow-healing wound had only excited him, intensifying his obsession. She hadn't been all that surprised though—she'd been his for so long by that point, she could barely imagine what it would be like to not be under his control. She'd hated to admit it then, but the possibility of being discarded had frightened her. Being as incapacitated as she was, only Damon's claim on her had kept the others at bay.

But the wound had eventually healed, and the skin around it had tightened, and the sensation had slowly become familiar. And looking at it now, it was a shock to see it for herself, but it was not difficult to accept. She'd already had time to adjust to its presence.

What made her gut churn dangerously was the swirl of black that laced the skin of her left temple. Strands of ink swooped up to her forehead—where it was fractured by the scar that found its start there—and trailed down to the curve of her cheek. It was graceful and gentle, but every single line and finger of the tattoo ended with a pointed spike. It looked violent and hard, and the dark color against her skin looked more like a turbulent storm than a swirling breeze.

The design had no rhyme or reason to it, but it was distinct in its outline, and in it Ziva saw the tattoos that had graced the flesh of her tormentors. It, like theirs, was hard, and vicious, sharp and glaring against her skin.

Only Bloods wore such tattoos—it was what set them apart from the other Survivors, aside from their bloodlust. Since the Incident, Survivors had learned to fear those tattoos, to know that their lives were in imminent danger the moment they saw such markings.

And now she had one of her own.

There'd been no one else among the Herd with a tattoo. They'd marked her, set her apart, and she'd never realized. How had they done it? How could she not have known? But…

There had been one morning—closer to her Capture than her Rescue—when she'd woken up to find her face aching. Her skin had burned, and felt hot to the touch. She'd thought it to be a new bruise, that she'd angered Damon the night before and he had knocked her out. She hadn't remembered it happening, but that wasn't uncommon. And the pain had faded, just like a bruise would.

But now… now she had a sinking suspicion that it had never been a bruise.

Her chest clenched painfully, and she struggled to pull in a breath past the lump in her throat. Apprehension filled her, and she closed her eyes against the offending sight of the abomination staring back at her. She heard the door creak open behind her, but still kept her eyes closed. She knew who it was without having to look—she knew him by smell now, by sound. And she knew him by touch—she did not flinch when his warm hands rested gently on her shoulders. Nor did she shudder in disgust when his breath tickled her neck. Instead she shivered, thrills of pleasure tingling her skin.

It was a foreign sensation, and the pleasure made her uncomfortable. Then she remembered what she had just seen in the mirror, and she wondered how he could touch her, knowing what she had become. She almost shrugged his hands away, but the sound of his voice preempted her from doing so.

"You okay?"

She almost nodded on autopilot, brushing off his concern. But she stopped herself at the last moment, knowing that he wouldn't believe her, and it would only hurt him if he thought she didn't trust him. And she did trust him, didn't she? Yes. Yes, she did. She knew that, and he had to know it too.

And yet, she couldn't bring herself to admit her distress. Nor could she open her eyes, and that was enough of an answer for him.

"Stop," he said gently.

"Stop what?"

His hands squeezed her shoulders. "Whatever's going through your head right now. You need to stop, because whatever it is, you're wrong."

Dozens of protests ran through her mind, ready to throw one at him as a diversion, to give her time to put her defenses up. But his astute comprehension of her discomfort cut through each and every one of them.

"I don't understand," she whispered. "I don't understand how Tali didn't run screaming the moment she saw me."

"Why would she run from you?"

"Look at me, Jethro!" Her eyes flew open then, and found that he was already meeting her gaze in the mirror, looking over her shoulder from behind. But there was no judgment in his eyes, no disgust or horror or any of the things that swirled violently within her.

"I'm a mess," she whispered, some of the fight draining from her. "It's bad enough that I don't look like me anymore, but…" She sighed in defeat. "Why didn't you tell me they Marked me?"

That seemed to take him aback. He withdrew slightly in surprise. "I didn't—I thought you already knew. It's not really something you forget." He paused, something in her gaze catching his attention. A moment later, comprehension dawned. "You didn't forget. You just didn't… _Shit_." He ran a hand over his eyes. "_How_ did they…?"

She shook her head. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know, I can't remember." She tried to take a deep breath to steady herself, but when she nearly choked on it, she settled for short breaths through her nose. "I thought I'd be able to pretend that none of it had happened. That I could just put it behind me and focus on Tali, on the Residents, on you." The past few days, that had been all she could think about. She didn't want to feel sorry for herself, to dwell on the years that had been lost.

"You still can," Gibbs whispered. "If you want to."

"They turned me into one of _them_—"

"No. No, they didn't. You're still you, Ziver."

"But—"

"No buts." His voice was low in its seriousness, and there was nothing Ziva could do but listen as he continued. "You think Bloods stare at themselves in the mirror and feel horrified at what other people might see? That they're worried their friends, or their children, might be afraid of them?

"No…"

"Exactly. You're still Ziva. You're still Tali's mother, you're still Abby's friend, and you're still my wife. We don't care what you look like, Ziver. That's just what happened to you. It's not who you are." His eyes met hers in the mirror once more, and held them intently. "You're still you. Not a Blood. Bloods don't wear collars."

Ziva flinched at the reminder of the metal that had trapped her for so long, but his words rang true. She was not a Blood. They had never treated her as a Blood—they'd made her kill as one, Marked her as one, but she'd been nothing more than toy. And in that moment, the tattooed reflection seemed to shift as she stared at it in the mirror. It didn't fade or disappear, as much as she wanted it to, but it did change. It became another scar—just one more badge of Survival she'd picked up over the past two years.

And with the Mark-turned-scar came relief. Suddenly she could breathe again, and she relaxed into Gibbs' touch. Her hands tightened on the grips of her crutches, and she turned her head to rest her forehead against his cheek. His hand came up to brace the back of her head, and she leaned into the contact.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I told myself I wouldn't…" She gave up trying to explain. It didn't matter anyway. "Thank you," she finished simply.

"Any time," Gibbs returned softly. His hand stroked her hair gently, and once again Ziva was grateful for the feel of clean, combed hair.

Silence followed for a few long moments, though Ziva's mind still continued to churn through her concern and apprehension. When the quiet was broken a few minutes later, it was Ziva who spoke.

"These are not my only scars." Her voice was tentative, probing, testing the waters of his acceptance. Would he accept such an open-ended declaration? Would he love her even without knowing what else might come to the surface in the time to come?

"I know," he murmured back, his voice tender.

Apparently, he would.

He _did_.


	25. The Welcome

"Jethro, if I do not get out of this house, I will lose it."

Ziva's voice was strong, and only half-teasing. Both McGee and DiNozzo could hear the exchange that was taking place in the Boss' bedroom from where they stood in the living room. They traded grins, both happy to hear the spitfire they'd loved and missed.

"And besides, you promised to give me a tour of Sanctuary. I see the sun—it's a good day to spend outside."

A mumbling rumble that could only be Gibbs could be heard, but it was brief, quickly cut off by Ziva's voice once more.

"_No_," the Shadow declared, "neither you nor Sergei will be carrying me anywhere. Except for the stairs. You win on those."

Another low utterance sounded.

"Do not make me use the battered-wife card, Jethro," Ziva threatened. "You might as well stop arguing. I'm going to have my way." They could hear the smile in her voice. "All you have a say in is whether you will be involved in the process or not."

A moment of silence followed, and then the sound of heavy footsteps moved across the upstairs hallway and down the stairs. McGee and Tony watched with stifled laughter as their Boss appeared, Ziva in his arms, moving them both down the stairs. As soon as he hit the ground floor Ziva was squirming, and her crutches were already moving to catch her weight as she left his grip.

Her feet were wrapped in padded cloths that wrapped up to mid-calf, providing both protection for the soles of her feet and stability for her stitched ankles. She had yet to regain the weight she so desperately needed—McGee and DiNozzo could see her clavicles jutting savagely where her shirt hung limply from her shoulders—but they were satisfied with the color that had returned to her once-sallow skin. And though she appeared to be frail, it took her almost no time at all to steady herself on the slender crutches, making Tim wonder just how much muscle still lay beneath the fabric of her shirt.

Brown eyes lit up when they spotted the two Council members, and with a speed that impressed all three men, Ziva swung herself over to them on the crutches that suddenly seemed to be extensions of her arms. Though it was not the first time the team mates had seen Ziva since her Rescue, but it was the most animated she'd been, and both were hard-pressed to not make fools of themselves as she came over to greet them. As it was, broad grins graced both their features when Ziva's attention shifted to them.

"It is about time you two came to visit again," she said brightly, "but you've caught us at a bad time. We are going to tour the facilities," she added triumphantly.

Tony smirked as he looped a light arm over his partner's shoulders, giving her a friendly—and gentle— one-armed hug. "We'd be offended that you don't have time for us anymore," he declared jovially, "except that we came to see you off."

Her brow furrowed in confusion for a moment, before she gave a roll of her eyes. Looking over her shoulder, she gave her husband a pointed stare. "You made me twist your arm for no damn reason, didn't you?"

Gibbs gave a smug grin. "Not for no reason," he contradicted.

"Oh?"

"Well, yeah," he scoffed lightly, smugly settling back onto his heels. "Was funny as hell."

McGee choked back a laugh, and only Ziva's close proximity kept Tony's reaction to a mere grin. She stared at Gibbs for a long moment, her expression hard, before finally wrinkling her nose at him playfully. She turned back to McGee, pegging him with an expectant gaze.

Tim froze, unsure of what was expected of him. He gulped nervously, his eyes darting between Tony and Gibbs in a silent plea for help. They watched him squirm with no small amount of amusement.

"_Well_?" Ziva's voice was impatient, and her unscarred eyebrow lifted into a familiar arch.

McGee gulped again. "Well what?"

Ziva sighed. "Are you really going to make the woman on crutches hobble over to you for a hug?"

"Yeah, McLazy," Tony chimed in. "Unless you're _okay_ with being one-upped by the great and awesome DiNozzo. It's all right, I know it be intimidating—"

McGee preempted whatever else Tony was fixing to say by gently shoving him as he moved in to wrap his arms around Ziva. She leaned into her friend's embrace, but her reliance on the crutches limited her to placing a hand his waist in reciprocation.

"It's good to see you up and about, Ziva," McGee said, his words audibly heartfelt.

"Thank you, Tim," she replied. She pulled back, and gave him a grin. "It _feels_ good to be up and about." She regarded both of her friends with a critical eye. "Now, are you just here to see me off, or will you two be joining us?"

The two men shared a look. Instantly, Ziva's interest was piqued, and her focus zeroed in on the two former agents.

"Well, that depends on you," Tim responded.

"Me?"

"Well, yeah," Tony explained. "See, we weren't sure if you would be comfortable with a huge entourage today, so we decided to let you decide whether we walk with you, or hover inconspicuously out of sight." He grinned shamelessly. "Cause you know, if we're there with you, the girls are gonna come flocking, and then the whole Sanctuary will be right behind them—"

"Uh huh," Ziva interrupted. "And will your Rosie be among the flocking ladies?"

"Of course…"

"Then by all means, join us. I would like to meet her."

"Really?"

"To offer my condolences."

"Grea—wait, what?" Tony's features creased into a concerned mask of confusion. "Why condolences?"

Ziva's only answer was a devilish grin, but McGee had no problem filling in the blanks for his friend.

"For getting sucked into the swirling vortex that is the life of Tony Dinozzo," the tech advisor readily supplied, joining in on the fun. Ziva bumped him with her elbow in conspiratorial approval, her mirth clearly evident as Tony blinked in shock.

But then the theatrical mask of mock hurt came into play, and Tony clasped his chest in imaginary pain.

"Oh, tag-teamed!" he cried dramatically. He writhed for a moment, complete with agonized moans, then straightened suddenly, his expression instantly serious. "But, seriously, Ziva, that hurt."

"You're a big boy," she waved him off. "You can handle it."

Tony paused, then turned to McGee. "Yeah, and believe it or not I actually missed getting those tenderhearted verbal gut shots."

Still smirking, Ziva stretched her neck up to press an affectionate kiss to her partner's cheek. "Missed you too, Tony."

The Italian blushed, but waved it off with an air of nonchalance. "Come on, let's get this show on the road, before you start accusing us of trying to distract you long enough for the sun to set and Gibbs manages to put this off another day."

"I agree." Ziva straightened as much as her crutches would allow, and moved back to where Gibbs was waiting. "Let's do this, shall we?"

Gibbs held his arm out, ushering her to the door first, and she crutched her way to the threshold. Once there however, she stopped short.

McGee and DiNozzo exchanged flashes of worry and mild panic, no doubt imagining the same scenes of emotional breakdowns and proclamations of self-doubt. They knew that Ziva was potentially volatile—anyone would be, after what she'd been through—and in all honesty none of them had any idea of what to expect from her. Her recovery was undeniably quick, maybe even too quick. If this was the moment that broke through the veneer of normalcy they were in the process of rebuilding, then they would be intruders in what could quickly turn into a private moment of indecision on Ziva's part.

They looked back to Gibbs, but the Voice's attention was on Ziva, who twisted her head around to look at her husband.

"Jethro, could you braid my hair before we go?" she asked lightly. "I don't want to have to stop every two seconds to brush it out of my eyes…"

Gibbs revealed the small elastic he'd pocketed earlier, and within moments had her curly hair tied back and away from her face. It took enough time for McGee and DiNozzo to share twin sheepish grins of relief. They should have known better than to doubt Ziva's resolve.

As soon as Gibbs was finished wrapping the elastic around the end of the plait, he moved to open the screen door for Ziva, allowing her to crutch through the doorway unhindered. She moved out onto the porch with deceptive dexterity and then paused, waiting for the rest of the men to join her as she scanned the area in front of the House.

All across the grassy yard, Residents were hard at work. Several Menders were busy sawing away at some lumber, while others were even beginning to manufacture what might turn into a bench a few feet away. Residents on KP were peeling the vegetables that would undoubtedly be going into that night's dinner, and were tossing the naked roots into a pot that already contained water and a few leafy herbs.

A little farther away, a few Residents were darning socks and trousers, chatting away merrily as their eyes continually surveyed the scene around them. Still more Residents were bundling wood together, readying the already split logs into piles for Distribution. It seemed like dozens of Residents were either working or simply conversing amongst themselves intently, with Abby and Sergei nearby as well.

Tali was tottering back and forth between them, unable to keep her attention on either one for very long without getting distracted by the other. The Shirt in her hand trailed across the grass with each pass, and Ziva once again recalled the days in she herself used to wear that very same shirt. Only those Memories seemed oddly out of touch, with the grassy, sunny scene before her so completely irreconcilable with the cold hard walls of the Warehouse she'd left behind.

Gibbs moved up behind her, taking in the same sights as she. His lips curled into a smile, and even though Ziva didn't see it, she leaned back to whisper conspiratorially.

"Why do I find it hard to believe that the Residents on Duty always work in the front yard all at the same time of day?"

Gibbs' grin grew. "Because they don't."

"Then why—?"

"Do you really have to ask?" Gibbs couldn't keep the amusement and affection from his voice.

"So they—"

"Yes."

"For me—"

"Yes." Gibbs put a reassuring hand on the small of her back. "They missed you, Ziver. Your disappearance was hard on them too."

"But…"

"No buts about it, Ziva. Those first few months were chaos. You were their go-to, and when you suddenly weren't there, they panicked. A lot of people only stayed because they hoped you would come back. And now that you have…" His thumb traced circles through her shirt. "They've been waiting to see you for themselves."

Ziva was silent for a few long moments, as she gazed on the inconspicuously gathered Residents. Gibbs suspected that Abby had been the one to spread the word of Ziva's impending field trip, but he wondered if she had done so of her own volition, or if the Residents had been pestering her for information. Either were viable possibilities at this point.

But then Ziva took to a steadying breath, squared her shoulders. "Well, it's been two years," she stated calmly. "It would be cruel to keep them waiting any longer."

She turned to look at Gibbs, and beneath the furrow of her scar, her eyes were bright and strong. Her lips curled into a smile.

"Let's go."

The single step down from the porch to the grass of the front yard was easy enough for Ziva to traverse, even with the crutches, and she led the way towards the Residents, though Gibbs remained close on her heels. DiNozzo and McGee kept a more respectful distance, though they too kept an attentive eye on their friend.

It wasn't long before Natalia caught sight of Ziva's approaching form.

"MOMMY!"

The child's loud cry echoed in the suddenly silent yard, as the rest of the Residents focused their attention on the object of the little girl's excitement. Tali instantly began to pelt towards her mother, a grin splitting her features.

Alarm rushed through Gibbs when it became evident the child had no intention of slowing down before she connected with Ziva's legs—the legs that were still incapable of holding Ziva's weight unaided.

Before Gibbs could react, Sergei surged forward with a speed that belied his bulky frame, and with a heavily muscled arm snatched Tali around the middle inches before she collided with Ziva's knees. He swung her up into his arms, and almost instantly the little girl's features twisted with unpleased surprise.

"No!" she shrieked. "No, Big Bear! Want Mommy!" Tears welled in her eyes, but Gibbs stepped forward before she could get into full scene mode. She spotted him, and a familiar pout graced her bottom lip. "Daddy…"

"Do you remember what I said about being careful with Mommy?" Gibbs chided gently.

Tali nodded. "But she's not sleeping anymore."

"But Mommy's still healing, Princess. You still have to be gentle, or else Mommy could get hurt."

"Don't wanna hurt Mommy," Tali whimpered pitifully. She looked to Ziva, then extended her arms. "Mommy hold?"

Gibbs reached up and turned Tali's head towards him. "No, Tali. Mommy needs her arms to walk."

"But…" Confusion clouded Tali's eyes. "Mommy walk on legs."

Gibbs grinned. "She will, once she's healed a little more. And then she'll carry you all you want, okay?"

A pressure on the side of his leg prompted him to step to the side, and Ziva retracted the offending crutch in order to take a few short steps towards Tali. "I can't hold you right now, Natalia," she said carefully, the voice of a born diplomat. "But when we come back home later, we can cuddle like we did yesterday."

"Today?"

"Yes, today. I promise."

Bright, small teeth gleamed in the midmorning sun, as the girl displayed her approval before nodding vigorously. Ziva nodded as well, pleased with the outcome. She looked to Sergei then.

"Big Bear?" she asked gently, her tone lightly teasing. Her lips curled into a smile. "Really?"

"Not the most imaginative," the large Russian admitted. "But I enjoy it. It suits, I think. The perceptions of little girls are often honest ones."

"Indeed."

One of Sergei's arms detached from Tali, and reached towards Ziva in a warm gesture of welcome. Ziva smiled broadly, and let one of her crutches dangle from her arm as she returned the motion by clasping Sergei's wrist firmly. It was an exchange of brotherly camaraderie, that which could only be shared by soldiers who'd served on the same battlefield. It seemed almost intimate, but it served as a gateway, and slowly the other Residents began to drift over to offer their own welcomes.

Ziva weathered the gauntlet of well-wishers like a pro, her smile never faltering as she received welcome-backs and get-wells alike from the people she'd once thought lost to her. And to their credit, the Residents did not get out of hand. They welcomed back their Shadow with the respect she deserved, but also with the familiarity that came from having lived daily life with her so long, even if it had been years ago.

She shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, all while offering assurances that she would recover in no time at all. She looked forward to getting to know the new Residents, and reacquainting herself with those she already knew. She would be back on her feet and she would resume her duties, and things would quickly return to how they should. And above all, she was grateful for the prayers that had been offered in her name the past two years, and for the consideration they were giving her now.

Each Resident only heard bits and pieces, but Gibbs heard it all, and it amazed him that she spent most of her effort trying to reassure _them_. What little apprehension had been present in her frame slowly bled away, and some of the confidence she had lost returned. She slid back into her role with surprising ease, and not once did she recoil from their touches, though good fortune led to the Residents approaching one at a time, and only reaching out to touch her once Ziva had demonstrated that she remembered them.

Little by little, the crowd thinned as the Residents returned to their Duties, and then Ziva was left with only the Council Members, plus one more Resident she did not recognize in the slightest. But she then noticed her proximity to Tony, and the blonde tresses that caught the sunlight just like her partner had described, and she realized who the unfamiliar woman was.

"And you must be Rosie," she offered politely, crutching closer to the couple.

Rosie smiled in acknowledgement, and the two women shook hands in greeting.

"I am," Rosie confirmed pleasantly. "And you're Ziva." She grinned. "You're kind of like the worst-kept secret in Sanctuary. A bit of a hero, actually." Rosie grinned sheepishly. "Especially with this guy," she added, jabbing a thumb at Tony. "He's told me a lot about you."

"I'll have to return the favor, then," Ziva negotiated. She grinned when Rosie's expression lit up.

"I would love that," she said. "I have to twist his arm to get him to be serious sometimes. I swear he's embarrassed to himself."

Gibbs almost laughed. If she thought Tony was insufferable now, there was no way she would've been able to handle him when he'd been Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. The Incident and Ziva's death had taken their toll on his optimism and sense of humor, and for a while they'd been left with little more than a shell. Only in the past few days—since Ziva's Recovery—had they been able to see some of his old spark.

"As he well should be," Ziva returned, shooting Tony a mischievous glance. "But I think I will see how much I wrangle from him as blackmail before I decide what should be shared…"

"Oh, please," Tony spoke up finally. "DiNozzos never negotiate with blackmailers. It's below us, and besides, you have nothing to barter with."

"Oh, really," McGee joined in. "So you mean you told Rosie about the time you tongued the trans—"

"Heyheyhey, McFibber," DiNozzo sputtered defensively. "No need to be spreading lies now, all right?" He leaned forward threateningly. "And I thought we agreed to never ever mention that again."

McGee grinned. "I agreed. But Ziva didn't."

This time, it was Ziva who grinned mischievously. Tony paled, but cleared his throat in an attempt to save face.

"This is a conversation that can be finished later," he stated with finality. "Tour of Sanctuary first, right?"

Ziva rolled her eyes. "Yes," she agreed. She then turned to the Voice. "Lead on, _mon capitan_." She gave him a playful wink, which sent Gibbs' pulse galloping away. But he ignored his reaction, and focused on the task at hand.

He obliged her request with a patient, diplomatic smile, glad to see his team whole and engaging in the familiar banter that had once filled their squad room. Since the Incident, the struggle to Survive had preempted them from engaging in similar repartees, but now, in the leisurely atmosphere of the Sanctuary, it had somehow come back full force.

And it was a welcome sight.

He showed Ziva the entirety of Sanctuary, short of venturing into the Woods. He explained how everything worked, how the Chain of Command had changed in her absence. She listened and watched with rapt attention, and still managed to engage with anyone else they encountered on the tour. Gibbs watched as, even injured as she was, she slid back into her role of Shadow with the most natural of ease.

Her interaction with the Residents, all of the Residents, was both professional and familiar—that of a trusted leader. Once it was made clear to the Residents that Ziva was still the same person she was, their apprehension disappeared, and they spoke to her as they would have two years ago. The conversations came easy, and the Residents moved on relatively quickly, leaving the path clear for Tali to put in her own two cents.

She raced around the group with seemingly inexhaustible energy, picking small flowers to show her mother as they walked, or exclaiming excitedly at the butterflies that fluttered around the Sanctuary. She also regaled her captive audience with her own perceptions of Sanctuary, pointing out the more ubiquitous sites and the stories associated with them. Among them was the fence from which she'd toppled last year, and the crawl space beneath barn that in Tali's world was a deep chasm in which lay a nest of dragon eggs.

Ziva listened with rapt attention, asking the child questions and showing genuine interest. Gibbs saw the way her eyes lit up whenever Tali tugged on the hem of her shirt to get her attention, or when the child tried to pull her in another direction. It was during that tour that he realized he would have to look for the warning signs later—the signs that every person wrapped around Tali's little finger showed exhibited were well-known by all now.

Even so, by the time the group was ready to return to the House, it was clear that Ziva was beyond exhausted. Her ankles had begun to throb under the burden of bearing her weight for so long, and her arms ached from being so overworked. Gibbs could see her wrists and shoulders trembling from the effort of keeping herself upright, but she gave no word of discomfort, so he refrained from offering his assistance. When McGee and DiNozzo looked to him in concern, seeing her fatigue for themselves, he gave a single shake of his head, and they too kept their distance.

The sun was about to dip below the horizon by the time they returned to the House. Ziva got herself through the front door on her own steam, but as soon as she was out of sight from the other Residents she slumped against the nearest wall. Her head leaned back against the painted drywall, her eyes closed in sheer exhaustion.

That was how Gibbs found her a moment later, and only when he brushed his hand along her arm did she open her eyes, though her head didn't move an inch.

"You ready to go back upstairs?" he asked softly.

All he got in response was a wordless moan of affirmation. He grinned, and moved to put his shoulder under one of her arms, relieving some of the burden on her upper body. Her hand immediately released its grip on the crutch, and Gibbs pulled it from her arm to give himself room to move. A hand reached over to take the crutch from Gibbs in turn, and both Gibbs and Ziva looked up to see Tony retrieving the second crutch from her as well, leaving both sets of hands free for the impending journey.

Ziva gave him a grateful smile, but then Gibbs was sweeping her up into his arms. Any word of protest she might have given earlier that morning was abandoned, and she remained limp in his hold as he took her upstairs. Her head rested on his shoulder, and she sighed in relief.

"Tali…" she murmured softly, recalling the promise she had made the little girl earlier in the day.

Gibbs chuckled. "Don't worry. She'll find her way over here on her own. I give it ten minutes before she's hogging your covers."

"Mmmkay." His response seemed to be enough for her, and the rest of the trip upstairs was silent save for the heavy footfalls of Gibbs' boots on the wooden stairs. When they made it to their bedroom, she was almost half-asleep, though she gave a short sound of displeasure when he deposited her on the waiting bed. With a soft smile he sat next to her, helping her shift into a more comfortable position. She settled for laying on her side, facing him, and her fingers slipped around his hand to continue their physical contact.

Ducky showed up for a few moments, though he limited himself to checking on Ziva's stitches. There was some increased swelling, but he said that it was to be expected after having remained on them so long. He advised Gibbs to keep her in bed the next day to recuperate, lest she re-damage the tendons. Jethro had merely shrugged with a grin, knowing that she wouldn't let him order her to do anything. He could only hope that she would sleep most of the day away.

And then the doctor was gone, leaving them alone once more.

"You did great today," Gibbs said finally, smoothing Ziva's hair from her face. By now there were curls working their way free of the braid she'd requested earlier, and they stuck to her sweaty brow even as he tried to get them to disengage.

"They're all still here," she murmured tiredly.

"Who?"

"The Residents." She sighed as her head shifted to find a more cushioned section of the pillow. Her eyes opened, but remained hooded and dark with encroaching sleep.

"Yeah," Gibbs affirmed. "Most of them." They'd lost a few to disease and injury, before finding the Sanctuary. But for the most part, the pre-Evacuation population had Survived.

"Thought they'd all be dead by now. Or Disbanded." She sighed tiredly. "But you kept them all together. You kept them safe."

"Yeah…" He wouldn't be telling her how close he came to leaving it all behind, or how much he wanted to abandon them in order to search for her. She didn't need to know all that. "They're pretty tough, for a bunch of mangy Survivors."

"They're not mangy," Ziva contradicted. "Too clean. Everyone's clean. And I know what mange looks like. No mange here." She blinked heavily. "You never told me how beautiful it was. So much color… And the smell…"

"Hey, you said it was clean…"

"No, it smells good. Fresh. No death. Just flowers and grass and trees and life…" She yawned. Gibbs knew her battle for wakefulness was slowly being lost. "Ten minutes yet?"

"Not quite, but…" A scuff on the stairs alerted him to a visitor. "I think you got lucky. She's early."

Sure enough, the scuff turned into the pitter patter of enthusiastic feet thundering down the hall. The door burst open, and Tali made short work of the climb up onto the bed with them. Once there, however, she slowed, and crawled gently over to where Ziva lay. A small hand patted a tired cheek.

"You sleepin' again?" Tali's voice was hushed and gentle—completely not Tali-like.

"Just about," came the exhausted mumble. "Waited for you though, sweetheart." She opened her eyes as wide as she could in an effort to seem more welcoming. She raised an arm, and beckoned towards the child, who immediately squirmed into the offered space. Gibbs almost issued another warning to be gentle, but then she settled, and both his girls relaxed beneath the blankets.

Ziva's warped fingers brushed lightly over Natalia's soft curls. And now her eyes closed completely, and within moments her breathing had evened out. Gibbs watched as Tali followed suit, her copious amounts of energy seemingly placated by Ziva's presence. She would be wide awake later in the night, or early tomorrow morning, but Gibbs would handle that when the time came. For now, he was satisfied with watching his family sleep.

He wanted to stretch out next to Ziva, to curl around her just like he used to, with his arm thrown over her waist, pulling her close. But if he did, he could scare her. Even thinking about it, the image of Werth laying with Ziva on the floor of the boxcar, his own arm latched possessively around her abdomen—exactly where Gibbs' own arm used to lay.

The flashback turned Gibbs' stomach, and he had to struggle to keep himself calm. He focused so intently on doing so that he didn't notice the pair of dark brown looking at him from beneath shadowed lids. His gaze remained glued to his folded hands in front of him until a soft whisper pulled him from his reverie.

"_Jethro_."

His head jerked up in surprise, and he glanced at his wife to find her looking at him with an indiscernible expression in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" he whispered back, concern filling him as he banished all thoughts of Damon Werth from his mind.

"Cold," she replied softly. When Gibbs moved to retrieve another blanket, her hand snaked out and caught his wrist. She looked at him with mild apprehension, but her voice, though quiet, was strong and sure. "Come lay with us?"

Her tone seemed hesitant, but something in her eyes told Gibbs that she was more wary of him declining than she was of him accepting.

It surprised him, what she was asking. He thought she would be averse to physical intimacy. He'd expected the distance—it was a natural reaction to see in victims—and yet here she was, inviting him into her bed.

Go figure.

But still, he hesitated.

"You sure?" He didn't want to pressure her, and it was important for her to know she had an out if she needed it. But she nodded firmly. There was a silent _please_ in her gaze, though her lips remained stubbornly closed, and Gibbs knew she was certain in her affirmation.

And so moments later he found himself lowering himself onto the bed behind her. He knew it would be wrong to leave a barrier of space, even if common sense told him not to crowd her, so he turned on his side as well, so that his body could follow the same curve as hers.

He accidentally brushed one of her many still-healing wounds on his way down, and she stiffened with a sharp hiss of pain. Gibbs froze, and then instinctively began to pull away. But yet again, a hand shot out and caught his wrist, pulling it back over her waist and drawing him even closer.

He almost whispered an apology, but refrained from doing so at the last moment. It was ultimately unnecessary, he realized, and not worth the risk of waking Tali. Instead he gently spooned against her back, and the loose curls of her hair tickled his nose. She was stiff in his arms for a few long moments, but when he didn't move, didn't pull away, she slowly relaxed.

Silence claimed the House, and the room darkened quickly in the growing night. Gibbs thought briefly of dinner—long missed by now—but found that he was content. The hunger that had been bothering him for the past two years was sated by the feel of the slight woman in his arms. He breathed in her scent, and a gentle, satisfied warmth ignited within him.

He thought Ziva had fallen asleep again, but a few minutes later, a soft utterance of his name drifted into his awareness. He _hmm_ed gently in response, and Ziva shifted slightly to speak over her shoulder at him.

"The Residents today…" Her brow furrowed. "They didn't say anything. About the scars. They didn't stare—they didn't even look twice."

Gibbs smiled into her hair. "I told you," he murmured softly, "they don't mean anything. These days, lots of people have scars. Old Tom has a big one on his palm—maybe you remember the sheet metal he tore his hand open on." It had been what had prompted her to venture into Vector 9, after all. "Johnson sliced his calf last winter, trying to chop some wood. Damn near took his own leg off while he was at it." His hand ran lightly over her ribs, tracing a soft circle through the fabric of her shirt. "They've been looking forward to seeing you, Ziver. All of them. And today, the Residents saw _you_. Not the scars."

"I know," she whispered back. "I—I don't know…"

"It's okay," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "Get some sleep. Things'll be clearer in the morning. Always are."

Her back pressed against him in a silent sigh as her head returned to the pillow. Her hand once again found its way to Tali's hair, seeking comfort from the soft locks that tickled her skin. Tali remained fast asleep, somehow worn out by a day of following Ziva around Sanctuary. Gibbs could see the new tension in his wife's frame, made all the more evident by the exhaustion that still plagued her.

"No," she whispered sleepily. "Not always."


	26. The Fear

--**WARNING:** Disturbing imagery ahead. Rated Mature.--

* * *

She woke to screams.

Cries of fear and horror tore through the heavy night air, and Ziva's eyes flew open as she bolted upright in bed, her senses instantly on full alert. The sheets were frigid against her skin, but the air was thick and hot around her, coating her nose and throat with the acrid stench of smoke and burning flesh.

The room was dark, but a flickering orange glow from outside threw maniacal shadows against the walls. They twisted and shifted, and for a moment she watched them, mesmerized by their smooth but chaotic movements. They seemed to be trying to tell her something, if only she concentrated hard enough to make sense of their message. But when the shadows became snarls of smoke and flame, a particularly close scream sounded outside, tearing her attention away from the shadows.

It was enough to shake her from her stupor, and she threw the cold sheets off of her and sprinted from the room. Gibbs was gone, as was Tali. She needed to find them. She knew where Gibbs would be—with their people, who needed him, needed her. He'd be fighting to keep them safe, protecting them from whoever was attacking them.

Because someone _was_ attacking them, that much was certain. She knew the screams of pure terror and grunts of fighting men more intimately than she would ever prefer.

They'd been surprised, attacked in the night, and the Sanctuary wasn't prepared for it. She'd seen it when Gibbs had given her the tour. Security was lax, the majority of the Residents were builders and cooks, none of them able to wield a weapon with as much ferocity needed to defend themselves from the enemies that lurked beyond the borders of the Sanctuary.

Even now, they were being slaughtered.

She flew down the stairs and burst through the screen door, only stopping when she could witness the chaos for herself. In the darkness Residents were scattering, running in a blind panic from both seen and unseen intruders. Some of the other houses were alight, and the turbulent glow of the flames threw the Sanctuary into eerie relief. The Residents rushing about were nothing but faceless silhouettes, though their fear was palpable even from a distance.

She stood on the porch, frozen as she tried to make sense of what she saw. Every instinct in her body was screaming, though each seemed to scream something different. She needed to find Gibbs, but she needed to find Tali too, and it was unlikely they'd be together. Tali would be with Abby, who would have been sent away for protection while Gibbs and the others attempted to defend what was left.

She needed to organize a Defense. She needed to get the scattered Residents together, to calm them and find a route out of Sanctuary. Gibbs must have devised an Escape route. Surely the Residents would know it, if they were calm enough to realize they held the key to their Survival. And once she got them out she could go back, and mount a secondary defense with any other Angels she managed to run into. She knew how to fight, she knew how to Survive, and her place had always been among the ranks of the warriors.

Making a decision, she finally left her place on the porch, sprinting towards the Residents who were running past. The first few ignored her in their panic, and sprinted out of sight before she could even call out to them. Some of the others slowed just enough to acknowledge her, though as they got closer the mind-numbing fear in their eyes became evident, just as it was clear that they had lost all independent thought. They were in a mad panic, reverting to the instincts that urged them follow the group. They blew past her, ignoring her shouts, and she watched as they all surged towards the Barn.

It was intact, and it seemed that every single Resident was attempting to seek refuge there. It was defensible, but the structure itself was too vulnerable, it couldn't have been intended for concealment or protection from such an attack on the Sanctuary. If she'd been able to see how glaring a target it was, so had the enemy.

Alarm flooded Ziva, and fear coursed through her as she began to run after them.

"Stop!" she called desperately. "Stay away from the Barn!" If any of the Residents heard her shouts, none gave heed. "No, not there—"

Her words were muted by the mushroom of flame and heat that suddenly consumed the Barn. The ground shuddered beneath her feet, but the Barn remained standing, though entirely engulfed in flame. In an instant, she knew that any inside had perished, as had many of the Residents that had been in close proximity. They burned on the nearby grass, motionless and unbreathing as the flame consumed them. Screams echoed throughout Sanctuary at the sudden explosion, but she couldn't see who they had come from.

In the light the burning Barn so perversely provided, Ziva suddenly realized that many of the silhouettes still rushing through Sanctuary were not Residents at all. In the sick glow of flame she saw the tattoos, the piercings, the jagged shocks of hair that adorned faces and heads, and the realization that followed sank like a stone in her gut.

Bloods.

They were here, and they had overtaken Sanctuary. The Borders were compromised, and if so many were this deep into the camp it meant that any defense that _had_ been mounted had failed entirely. They had set the place to burn, to flush out or murder any Residents who still lay abed.

Bloodthirsty grins gleamed in the firelight, and illuminating soulless eyes that sought the movement of any life they could smite. Some held pipes or chains or blades, but even those who were empty-handed sported blood-slicked fingers that continued to seek out living flesh.

All hopes of finding more Residents fled Ziva's mind, as the entirety of her focus shifted to the task of finding Natalia, for the child would not have been in the Barn. No, she wouldn't have, because Abby was her guardian, and Abby listened to Gibbs. Gibbs would have told them to flee immediately, so Abby should be nearly a mile away by now. Ziva only hoped that Damon hadn't thought to surround the Sanctuary before he began his assault on the compound. If he had, then no one had any chance of getting away unscathed.

But any thought of Abby and Tali was pushed from her mind as a shout sounded from behind her.

"FALL BACK!"

It was Gibbs. She knew that voice anywhere, even after two years of believing she'd never hear it again.

Her head whipped around, desperately searching for the owner of the deep, resonant voice. None of the dozen shadows racing towards her revealed their identities, even in the light of the burning barn, and all of them blew past her as if she wasn't there. But still, the voice sounded again from among of them, though none of them stopped for even a moment.

"FALL BACK! TO THE BARN!"

_No._

What was he thinking? Couldn't he see? The Barn was gone, ablaze with no hope for salvage. It would be ash before the night was out. And the way things were going, it was doubtful they would live long enough to even see that happen. There were more and more Bloods approaching, drawn to the roaring fire like moths to a candle. They would overtake the Residents who had heard Gibbs' shout, and she knew that each one would be nothing but broken bone and spilled blood if that happened.

"Jethro!"

Her voice was raspy, nothing more than a whisper in the growing smoke. She coughed to clear her throat, and tried again.

"JETHRO!"

This time, one of the fleeing shadows stopped and turned back to her. It was him. A house behind her burst into flame, and suddenly his features were clearly visible.

There was a gash on one side of his face, dangerously close to his right eye. Blood spilled over his skin, making it slick and dark in the grotesque light. He took a step toward her, and it was barely more than a limp. She couldn't see his injury in the darkness, but she knew that the damage was severe. His left leg could barely take any weight at all, and she strongly suspected that adrenaline had been the driving force behind his movement before. But adrenaline never lasted long, and it would only be a matter of time before it wore off, and he would be defenseless against the Bloods.

There was confusion in his gaze as he looked at her, as though he couldn't think of what she was doing there. It was almost as if he didn't recognize her, or that she was an apparition. But she didn't have time to worry about why he was looking at her that way. They would be lucky if they got the chance to discuss it later.

But for now, Survival was the most pressing matter. They needed to escape, to avoid both conflict and capture. The Bloods had the edge—they always did. They would tear apart anyone they ran into, and if even Gibbs was so injured now, there was a good chance everyone else left standing was as well. They were no match for so many Bloods.

She was about to call out to point out the state of the Barn when a shadow darted into the open behind Gibbs. The Voice gave no indication that he was aware of the threat, but Ziva knew from the Blood's movements that he was moments away from overtaking Gibbs from behind. Something glinted in the Blood's hand, and in an instant she knew that a blade was only a reach and a slash away from sneaking over Gibbs' shoulder and slicing open the tender flesh of his throat.

With a shout of warning, Ziva surged into motion. Fueled by pure adrenaline and heart-wrenching fear, she raced in a dead sprint in Gibbs' direction, fully intent on doing anything she could to keep Gibbs from harm. It was an all-encompassing need, void of detail or possible plans on how to do so. She simply needed to help him. Protect him.

She was six feet from reaching him when she was suddenly jerked off her feet by an unseen grip on her throat. It was like running into a clothesline—her feet flew from beneath her for a brief moment before she landed heavily on her back. Her breath left her body in a strangled _whoosh_, and she sputtered for air against her triggered gag reflex and spasming diaphragm. But her body wanted to retch, and she could do nothing but curl on her side as her hands instinctively flew to her throat.

The motion was entirely unnecessary—she knew what had happened, and she knew that nothing she did would relieve the distress on her airway. But even so, her fingers encountered cold hard metal, and the sickeningly familiar clink of metal on metal sounding at the nape of her neck told her all she needed to know.

She'd been yanked off her feet by the chain trailing from her metal collar.

It had happened more than a few times in the past two years, and the reflexive tears that spilled down her cheeks as she choked for breath were nothing new. Her sight blurred as she struggled to suck in a breath, but even as she coughed and sputtered helplessly, a familiar pair of boots stalked into her field of wavering vision. They stopped in front of her, and then turned towards her before a hand reached down and firmly gripped a handful of her hair.

With a vicious pull, she was drawn to her knees and then swatted aside like a ragdoll. This time, her hands were able to catch her, and she remained half upright. She gasped painfully, but looked up to see Damon sneering down at her with a malicious grin. Seeing his familiar visage sent a jolt of dread through her chest, though she dismissed it in favor of searching for Gibbs' shadowed form.

She expected to find him dead and crumpled on the packed earth, the unknowing victim of the threat Ziva had been so intent on saving him from. But to her shock and surprise, he was still breathing, conscious even, and his familiar blue eyes stared at her in a silent plea. He'd been forced to his knees, the blade of the Blood who'd sneaked up behind him pressed threateningly against his throat to keep him compliant.

For a moment, she simply stared, unable to tear her eyes from his arresting gaze. His sudden helplessness was terrifying in and of itself, and the growing dread within her increased tenfold. It was enough of a shock to take her mind off her need to breathe, and in that moment her diaphragm stilled long enough for her to finally draw in the much needed air. A few moments later, she looked back to her captor.

Damon Werth's attention was also on Gibbs, whom he regarded with a critical but belittling eye. Ziva could see the disgust in Damon's gaze, the contempt he had for the man who once held his respect. But that had been before the Incident, when Damon was an ill Marine who had been manipulated through his love for the Corps. Things had changed, and none more so than Damon himself.

Werth turned back towards Ziva, and his thin lips immediately twisted into a repulsive snarl. He towered over her like a god before a mortal, his shoulders square under his open leather jacket.

"You should have known better than to leave me."

Damon's words cut through the smoke-laden night, sending tingles of fear down Ziva's spine as she continued to gasp for air. By now her choking had eased to painful wheeze, and she was able to return his gaze with as much intensity as she could ever hope to conjure.

"Do you see what you have brought down on these people?" he continued mercilessly. "They take you in, welcome you home, and all you do is usher hell to their doorstep." He crouched down, his hand finding the curve of where her skull met her neck, gripping it fiercely as he forced her face towards his own. "You bring them death."

Ziva's gut clenched painfully. "_No_…"

"Yes," he insisted. "You knew I wouldn't give you up so easily. I own you. You're _my_ whore. _This_," he hooked a finger under the metal collar around her neck, "tells the world you're mine. This idiot," he waved towards Gibbs' kneeling form, "stole you from me. Did you think he, or _you_, would go unpunished?"

"He didn't know," she insisted desperately. "He didn't understand. It's me you want. These people have no quarrel with you. They are no threat—"

"Wrong." Damon's voice hardened to a steely edge. "He challenged me when he stole you out from under me, and _they_ challenged me when they harbored you. They will be an example as to what happens to _anyone_ who thinks to defy me, however unwittingly."

"No, _please_…"

"They all die," he continued mercilessly. "And this place is razed to the ground. But don't worry," he assured her, "you'll stick around to watch and remember. Maybe it'll be enough to persuade you to stick around next time someone thinks of helping you."

A soft coo of confusion sounded behind Werth, and Ziva looked up to see Tali standing a short distance away, Shirt in hand clutched tight to her chest. Her expression was one of confusion and fear, and her wide blue eyes darted between Ziva and Gibbs. She stood uncertainly, as if unsure of whom to turn to first.

"Daddy?" Her small voice was almost lost in the growing clamor around them. "Mommy…"

"Natalia!" Ziva shouted. "Run—"

Suddenly, another child appeared over Tali's shoulder. She stepped abreast of Tali, bringing her features into stark relief, and the sudden apparition of clear green eyes took Ziva's breath away. Memories of screams and pleas for help echoed in her ears, even as the little girl—older than Tali—took the smaller child in her arms, offering silent comfort. But those green eyes remained fixed on Ziva, arresting her with the somber understanding they held.

"Please," a light, ethereal voice begged her. "Please, don't let him kill us."

Ziva wanted to promise her, tried to reassure her, but her voice suddenly no longer worked. The only sound that would leave her lips was the dry gasping that still gripped her body, and even that was drowned out by the chaos that was rapidly growing around them.

By now, the Survivors that had heard Gibbs' call had converged on the Barn, and had fallen victim to the Bloods waiting there for them. It was a slaughter, and the Survivors were now realizing their mistake, though it was too late to do anything.

Around her the sounds of torn throats and broken limbs sounded wetly in her ears, and in the shadows she could see arms flailing for any kind of help. Wordless shrieks of terror and pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears, even as the sound of slaughter intensified, battering Ziva's senses until she knelt disoriented and dazed on the ground that was quickly softening with blood.

"Open your eyes."

Damon's voice cut through the fog, bringing Ziva back to full, if confused, awareness. She looked up at him, but her perplexity only grew when she refocused once more on the green-eyed girl standing in defense of Tali. It would take only a single blow to knock her away, Ziva knew. She'd seen it before. The girl would die, and then Tali would follow suit. Ziva could only bargain for how quick or slow the death would be, though she was in no position to barter for anything. Any request she made would be twisted until Damon had mutilated every single one of the lives standing helplessly before her.

"Watch," Werth continued. He gripped her chin tightly to force her eyes to his. "Watch and remember what happens when you defy me."

Remaining in a crouch, he crept to where Gibbs knelt, his long legs giving him the look of a sadistically dark spider stalking over the bloodstained grass. Once he was in front of the older man, Damon regarded Gibbs for a long moment.

"You're loyal to your people," Werth said, almost civil save for the maniacal gleam in his eye. "I can respect that." He paused, then sighed heavily as he leaned menacingly towards Gibbs, who returned his attentions with a glare of his own. "But next time you steal something from me, you better have the sense to _keep running_."

His words turned into a snarl, and with the speed of a viper, his hand darted out towards Gibbs' face. Quicker than Ziva could comprehend, nimble fingers jabbed past the fragile barriers of Jethro's eyelids and hooked around a single blue orb.

With a scream, the snared orb was drawn from behind bruised lids, the optical nerve trailing tautly behind. For a long moment, unblinking blue stared grotesquely at Ziva from between Damon's fingers. A snarl sounded then, and with a vicious yank Werth plucked the trapped eye completely from its socket, tearing the nerve attaching it at the source.

Agonized screams sounded through the night, joining with Tali's sobs until they threatened to overcome Ziva. But she could not tear her eyes away from the scene unfolding in front of her, even as Jethro's left eye met the same fate as its mate. Both orbs thudded discarded to the damp grass, and Gibbs writhed in his captor's arms, begging and pleading for something indecipherable. Ziva pulled against her collar, but whoever was on the other end of her leash refused to let her move even an inch towards her husband. The sound of his cries tore at her heart, but she was powerless to do anything to help him.

"For looking at something that didn't belong to you," Damon said, more for Ziva's hearing than for Gibbs'. Gibbs wouldn't be hearing anything over his own screams. Ziva's lips worked desperately to beg for her husband's life, but no sound emerged, her voice strangled by the metal around her throat.

Blue eyes lay askew on the grass, staring horrifically up at her as she lunged against her tether. But then her gaze was drawn back to Gibbs and Damon, as Damon reached up and forced his fingers into Gibbs' mouth. A knife suddenly glinted in his free hand, and then a moment later Gibbs had been relieved of his tongue as well.

Tears streamed from Ziva's eyes as the organ was discarded to the side, joining the abandoned eyes on the ground. Gibbs dropped, perhaps even passing out from the pain as his cries were suddenly voiceless.

But without his eyes, it was impossible for Ziva to know for sure, and a moment later the screams started again as the pain registered. By now Tali's screams for her father had begun as well, interweaving with Gibbs' agonized cries. She begged for Ziva to help him, to save him, but Ziva was helpless to do anything but watch.

"And that was for the hell of it," Damon sneered, his voice rumbling in the darkness. Gibbs slumped to the grass, his face bloody from cheek to chin as blood oozed from beneath empty lids and swollen lips. "But before I kill you, you can listen to your little brat getting her guts ripped out."

Bloody fingers snapped, and instantly rough hands snatched Tali away from the green-eyed girl. Tali squalled, as much the indignation of a three year old as it was sheer terror. She was lifted, almost tossed towards Werth, who stood and stepped over Gibbs' body to place a heavy hand on Tali's head. He still held the bloody knife in one hand, and Ziva knew that it would only be a few moments before it slit the little girl's throat from ear to ear. But first, he would gut her, and let her insides spill onto the soiled grass.

"Please," a small voice echoed in Ziva's awareness. She looked up, and found green eyes staring at her intently. "Save her," it pleaded. "Save her like you should have saved me."

"Don't even bother trying," Damon sneered. "You're not strong enough. How you even Survived this long is beyond me. You should have died in the first Game." A twisted grin gleamed at her from the shadows. "Let's see how long you last after you see for yourself that your family is dead. With no one to hold on for, how long will you last then? Especially knowing that their deaths are on your hands…"

A boot connected with her back, striking between her shoulder blades to send her pitching forwards. She landed heavily, but in an instant her gaze found her daughter once more. She looked at her just in time to see the knife drifting menacingly towards Tali's stomach.

_No._

A scream tried to work its way past the invisible stranglehold on her throat. The knife pressed against the shirt covering Tali's abdomen.

_No. Nononono… _

Blood began to slowly spread across Tali's shirt, and a pained, tearful cry cut through the haze of blood and shadow and flame.

"_Wake up_."

A familiar male voice sounded next to her ear, tearing Ziva's attention from Tali even as a wet rip wrenched through the air. A hand flipped Ziva onto her back, and she looked up to see Gibbs looming over her. Only, it wasn't Gibbs.

His eyes were nothing but empty sockets and thick, black blood gushed from between his lips. He snarled at her, his brows furrowed into a mask of hate and accusation. But even as they did, his voice sounded again.

"_Wake up, Ziva._"

Horror washed through her. He shouldn't be able to speak. Her eyes flicked fearfully to the side, where she spotted his dismembered eyes and tongue still laying inert on the ground five feet away. But even so, swollen lips twisted again in a parody of speech.

"_Open your eyes, Ziver. You need to wake up. Now!"_

Alarm tinged his tone, though his expression leering over her was anything but concerned. Bloody fingers tried to ensnare her throat, but her hand managed to snag his wrist before he could strangle her. She struggled beneath him, but his greater size was little more than dead weight, leaving her trapped. His fingers hooked into claws, straining to draw blood from any inch of her he could reach. But Tali's screams echoed through the Sanctuary, and Ziva looked up to see small ropes of intestine drooping from the jagged slash across her belly, pooling unceremoniously on the ground. The Shirt had long fallen by the wayside, as Tali's tiny hands tried to stuff her guts back into her abdomen.

Jethro's voice echoed into her consciousness once more.

"_Dammit, Ziva, wake up!"_

This time, Ziva blinked, and when she opened her eyes, her reality twisted in a blinding flash. When her vision cleared, Gibbs was still looming over her, pinning her down as she struggled to free herself. The world around her was brighter, the shadows and flame suddenly sunlight, and blue eyes stared intently at her from above. But panic still gripped her, her heart racing as fear overcame every sense that told her something was wrong.

Her voice suddenly returned, and this time, her scream issued unhindered from her throat. The deafening cry startled her, as it did Gibbs, and when her efforts to break free doubled, he pulled back just enough for her gain enough leverage to shove him away from her with a single mighty heave. Years of fending off Damon came into play, and her deceptive strength worked in her favor to compound the surprise her assailant already felt at her reaction.

When his weight lifted she scrabbled away from him in a blind panic, crab-walking in a mad scramble for freedom. But her legs got caught in the sheets just as she tipped over the edge of the bed, and she fell heavily on her back. The resulting jolt was too eerily familiar, and adrenaline surged through her as she gasped and kicked away from the bed. It wasn't until her back hit the wall that the pain hit, her ribs and abdomen and ankles suddenly flaring in agony.

She moaned as she coughed, her hands flying to her throat as her mind tried to reconcile this new world with the one she'd just found herself ripped from. Fingers met bare skin, and one arm came down to brace her aching ribs as she heaved for air. Movement in front of her caught her attention, but when she pressed herself against the wall behind her, Gibbs froze.

She looked at him, taking in the clear blue eyes still in his head and his skin clear of blood. His jaw was rough with overnight stubble, but it was still evident to Ziva that he was concerned for her. He didn't seem to be in any sort of pain, with no bruises under his skin. Relief coursed through her with a gasp, and she sagged when the panic abated to exhaustion.

"Ziver…" Gibbs' voice was concerned, but wary, wanting to respect her need to re-familiarize herself with her surroundings.

"It was a dream." It sounded almost like a sob to her own ears, but at this point she could barely keep the room from spinning around her. She blinked heavily in an attempt to stave off the disorientation that threatened to twist her awareness, and was thankful when they daylight still remained when she opened her eyes once more. "Just a dream."

Gibbs finally braved coming closer, and left the bed to kneel in front of her. "You okay?" he asked carefully. She nodded hesitantly, her hand running once more over her throat. "You scared the hell outta me."

"What happened?"

"Like you said, a nightmare," he told her. "You started choking in your sleep, and then… I don't really know. You panicked, almost fell off the bed. I tried to wake you up, but— ah, _damn_." His voice softened as his attention shifted to her ankles, which were lying limply on the floor, blood beginning to pool across the hardwood.

The pain spiked as she saw the torn skin, but it also came as a relief—pain meant she was awake and the world around her was real. Pain was real.

"Guess my plan backfired," Gibbs continued, a slight grin curling his lips. When she looked at him blankly, he continued. "You fell out of bed anyway. _And_ you tore open your stitches." He looked at her, and she saw the apology coming before it even left his lips. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "Tonight, I'll sleep in the chair—"

"No." Her response came swift and sure, with none of the shakiness she felt. "No, Jethro, that's not necessary. It wasn't you…"

"The hell it wasn't," he returned sharply. "I saw the way you looked at me when you woke up, Ziva. You were scared of me, like I was…" His voice trailed off, but she knew what he would have said if he'd continued. It was evident in the shadow of his eyes, in the downturn of his lips. He thought she'd believed him to be Damon.

"No, Jethro. I wasn't, and you weren't. Well, I _was_, but it wasn't—" She sighed. "It was the tour. Now that I've seen it, I…" This time it was her turn to trail off. Now that she'd seen it, what? She knew exactly where the Bloods would strike to do the most damage? Could see how much could be lost as a result of her presence?

He didn't need to hear that. He would only be more concerned for her, without fully understanding. He didn't know what she knew. And he wouldn't believe her.

"We need to get Ducky up here," Gibbs said gently.

Her attention was elsewhere, though. "Where's Tali?"

"Not here." Gibbs grinned. "She's an early riser. Was gone to bother Abby before you started…" He let it hang, and she nodded, relieved.

She bowed her head, letting her hair hide her face from his view. Catharsis hit her hard, and tears prickled at her eyes before spilling over onto her cheeks. She was overcome by the feeling that her chest was trying to collapse in on herself, and her breath caught in her throat as she fought to keep her distress hidden from Gibbs. But he must have seen her frame stiffen, for his hand came up to palm her cheek gently.

He pushed her hair back, and used his thumb to wipe her tears away. The tenderness in his touch crumbled her defenses even further, and a sob choked past the lump in her throat. He tilted her chin up, and she looked up to see his blurred visage gazing at her in concern. But in the void of being unable to see him clearly, the image of he had appeared in her nightmare came back into startling focus.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the image, and this time her resolve broke. She crumpled into her arms, which wrapped around her instinctively. He held her gently, and she clasped onto his arm desperately as she sobbed, his shirt growing damp with her tears. Sheer emotional overload wracked through her consciousness, draining her of what little energy she had left.

Gibbs held her close, his hand stroking her hair soothingly with practiced ease. He offered wordless sounds of comfort, patiently waiting for her to calm.

"It's okay," he whispered softly. "Everything's going to be okay."

Ziva shook her head. She clutched him tightly, holding on for all she was worth.

"No," she choked out. "No, it's not."


	27. The Confession

_A/N: Okay, it's official. I'm leaving for training on May 25th, which means two things. The first: This fic won't get done until at least the first week of July. Second: I will not be seeing the second part of the finale until that same week in July. So anyone who tries to spoil ANYTHING risks serious bodily harm. Now, any questions? No? Excellent._

_Enjoy the update! :)_

_

* * *

_

As soon as Ziva had calmed somewhat, Gibbs got Ducky to come and sew her ankles up once more. There wasn't any additional damage, for which both men were grateful, but Ziva barely seemed to register the doctor's jovial prognosis.

She'd completely withdrawn after her nightmare, and apathetically received Ducky's ministrations as she lay silent on the mattress. Gibbs watched on in concern, though his worry was more for her sudden change in disposition than for her reopened wounds.

It didn't come as much of a surprise, however. To be honest, he'd been waiting for the bottom to fall out from under them. The optimism and good humor she'd shown everyone since her Rescue were not natural. There was no way she could Survive something as twisted as the Black Blood Gang and be unscathed. It was Gibbs' suspicion that she'd been irrevocably scarred by whatever she'd been forced to live through, and not just physically.

He didn't know the first thing about the science of the mind. That was Ducky's territory. But he knew that under certain circumstances, the mind simply broke. It was a miracle that Ziva had the presence of mind to even pretend to be okay. Anyone else might have been an empty shell, but she was torn between putting up the façade for the Residents and the Council and trying to convince herself she was as okay as she pretended to be.

And finally, it had all caught up with her.

Ducky finished his work with a flourish and left, allowing Gibbs to remain alone in the room with Ziva. He watched as she lay on her side, bringing her knees as close to her chest as she could. She turned her back on him, facing the wall instead as she tried to tune him out.

He knew avoidance when he saw it, and he let her have it, taking up residence in the armchair next to the bed.

She lay stiffly on the bed, not bothering to use the blankets that remained twisted beneath her. He knew she was waiting for him to say something, anything, but he'd said all that he could. He'd offered his promise that everything would be okay, but she wasn't ready to hear it. And he understood that. He did. But until she _was _ready to hear it, and was capable of believing it, there was nothing more he could do.

And so he simply sat there, and ever so slowly Ziva relaxed. Her breathing evened out, and Gibbs was able to believe that she had managed to fall back asleep. By then the sun was high in the sky, near midday, but Tali had yet to come looking for him. That meant that Abby had once again taken charge of the girl, having either heard the morning's commotion for herself or been briefed by Ducky after he'd finished with Ziva. Sergei was also off-Duty today, which meant that more than likely the large Russian would be watching after Tali as well.

But the illusion of peace the silent bedroom possessed was shattered when Gibbs heard Ziva sniff. The sound was congested and forced, and in an instant he knew that she was crying. She hid it well, and maybe she thought _he_ had fallen asleep by now, but it broke Gibbs' heart to know she was hurting. He wanted to embrace her, to hold her until she fell asleep, but the image of her wide and panicked eyes when she'd seen him earlier that morning kept him where he was.

As much as she tried to deny it, something in her dream had made her frightened of him.

He didn't dare try to imagine what her mind had seen fit to plague her with. Who knew what she'd born witness to in the past two years, and the mind had a terrifying knack to twist reality until a person questioned his own sanity. He wanted to ask her, so he could know what he was dealing with, but the task was too daunting. He _didn't_ want to know what he'd done in her nightmare, what had made her suddenly so wary of him. And so he remained torn, unable to choose between her piece of mind and his own.

But when another sniff issued from the form lightly curled on the mattress, he was unable to stay away.

Rising from his chair, he ignored the tension that gripped her frame when she realized he was not as asleep as she'd assumed. Instead he walked carefully around the end of the bed, and knelt on the floor in front of her. He bent a leg under him to keep him level, and sat back, settling in to remain there for a while. He glanced her way, but her eyes were closed, even as tears leaked past her eyelids and coursed their way down her hollow cheeks.

She looked frail on the king-sized mattress, dwarfed by both the size of the bed and the poufy duvet that had been left behind when the original inhabitants of the town had fled. Without the mask of bravado she'd been hiding behind for the past few days, she seemed fragile and vulnerable. Guilt made itself known in Gibbs' gut, as he realized that he should have been there to prevent any of it from happening.

She shouldn't have gone missing, and she shouldn't have been kept as a—what? A slave? A gladiator?— for two goddamn years. She shouldn't have gone on that Medicinal run, and he shouldn't have prohibited it. She should have been there to watch Tali grow, to be her mother. And he should have been there with Ziva in DC, when Damon had decided to claim her as his own.

But he couldn't change any of that. He could merely help mitigate the damage, and even then his effect on her recovery would be minimal. She no longer trusted him as she once did, and for good reason. He hadn't exactly been the pillar of protection. She was not going to tell him much more than she already had, he knew that without a shadow of a doubt.

And that meant that Gibbs was left at a complete loss.

For a few long minutes he simply sat there, unable to find anything to say. Everything he wanted to say sounded naïve even to him, and would have meant absolutely nothing to her. But the silence weighed on him, as he watched Ziva reach up and wipe her silent tears away. He hated being helpless, but he couldn't deny the fact that he was. He didn't know how to help her, and as each moment passed the possibility that he _couldn't_ weighed ever more heavily on his shoulders.

Ziva's hand rested limply on the bed sheets, halfway between her body and the edge of the bed. Gibbs stared at it for a moment, and then as if it had a mind of its own, his hand slowly reached up to wrap his fingers around hers.

To his surprise—and reassurance—she didn't flinch when his skin brushed over hers, or when his fingers closed over her hand. Her fingers remained lax in his grip, but Gibbs didn't take it to heart. She didn't seem to be afraid of him, and that was a start.

For a moment he simply held her hand, the warmth of her hand dispelling some of his own nightmares that continued to plague him. But then his thumb began to trace light circles over her skin, feather-light and nearly nonexistent. It was then that Ziva finally opened her eyes, her blood shot orbs looking at him from beneath tear-swollen lids. They were expressionless, but not empty. Veiled, but not lifeless.

He could only look into them for a moment before he looked away in shame.

Silence pressed suffocatingly, until he finally broke it with hushed words that scraped against his throat.

"I don't know… what to do here, Ziver," he said, his words coming haltingly. He stared at their joined hands. "I want to help… I _need_ to help you. But every time I try I feel like I'm just making it worse." He heaved a soft but heavy sigh. "I don't know what to do."

A long moment passed, before Ziva's fingers finally closed around his. Gibbs looked at her, and found that her eyes now filled with guilt.

"I'm sorry," she said in the softest of whispers.

"I'm not blaming you—"

"I can't… I can't tell you what you want to hear, Jethro." Her voice was shaky, but she kept his hand in her grip. "I can't tell you what happened, in the dream or before you found me. I told you too much already."

"Ziver—"

"I can't." The tears resumed their trek down her cheeks, and her free hand came up to hide them from view, obscuring her features. "I just can't."

Gibbs lowered his gaze. "I know." His whisper sounded hoarse even to his own ears. "I wasn't going to ask." He wanted to know, yes, but he wouldn't have asked. He would wait, until she was ready. "But you don't have to do this alone."

His declaration of support went unanswered, and for a moment it seemed as though she hadn't even heard him. She didn't speak for a long moment, and while she didn't pull away, she did not reach out to him either.

But then, finally, she pulled gently on his hand. When he looked up at her, she was looking at him with tears in her eyes.

"Will you…" She hesitated. "Could you—?"

Suddenly, he realized what she was trying to ask him. Without a word, he stood, and when Ziva moved back on the bed, he slipped into the space she offered. His arms found their way around her, and she pressed her forehead to his chest. Her tears continued to fall, but they soaked into his shirt just as they had earlier that morning.

He pulled her close, and she let him, gripping his shirt tightly as she tried to keep her sobs silent. Her shoulders shook under the strain, and her breaths came heavy and thick. But he held her, for it was all he could do, and savored every moment she did not push him away.

"I'm here for you," he whispered into her hair. "Whatever you need, whenever you need it. I'll be here, I promise." He sighed softly, breathing in the scent of her. Again, he was struck by how deeply he had missed her, how deeply entrenched his need for her had become. "I'd go to the ends of the Earth for you."

To his surprise, this earned him a muffled laugh. "I know," she muttered, resting her hand flat on his chest. "You already have." Then, with an arch of her neck, she surprised him again by placing a soft kiss on his lips. "I need you. That's all I can tell you now. The rest…"

She let her words hang, and it was enough for Gibbs. He smiled, relief flooding him as the tension that had gripped him since morning finally began to dissipate. He pressed a kiss of his own to her forehead, and his hand stroked softly against her back, running over the sharp angles of her shoulder blades.

"You have me," he whispered. "And don't you ever doubt that."


	28. The Threat

I'm back! And a pretty quick turnaround time for new updates too! I got back Tuesday afternoon, and now it's Thursday- oorah! I think I might try to post something for Betrayal next, because I miss that fic a little bit. Plus I have some new ideas for fics and if I finish one I've already started, I can start posting a new one! So keep an eye out for stuff, because it's coming, whether you want it to or not!

Well, enjoy this newest update!

Peace!

-CSIGurlie07 aka the World's Newest Fully Trained Marine!

* * *

Gibbs stepped into the warm afternoon sun of the Sanctuary, the fresh air washing over him. Just coming from the House, he'd returned from his Duties for the day to find that Ziva had long abandoned the bedroom. A quick search of the House told Gibbs that she'd forsaken the indoors in general. Tali hadn't found Ziva yet either—the little girl was preoccupied with something that Sergei was showing her near the edge of the woods.

It had been two weeks since their conversation after her nightmare, pushing her time in Sanctuary to almost a month total. And in that time, her stamina and health had vastly improved. Her ankles themselves were slow-healing, but she had adapted to the crutches well, and the muscle she had developed during her Captivity worked to her advantage until she was able swing herself along with seemingly no effort at all.

The color had returned to her cheeks, and the increasing amount of time she spent in the sun allowed her natural skin tone to glow from beneath her scars. The bruises faded, and the slice on her abdomen slowly knitted together. It was taking longer for her to regain the weight she had so sorely lost, though her enriched diet softened the angles of her limbs and face ever so slightly, and filled in the hollows of her cheeks.

And with her improved health, her energy increased as well. Very rarely did she stay indoors anymore. More often than not, she could be found outside, drinking in the sun. Every so often, a Resident would approach her, but for the most part she stayed to herself. She didn't offer counsel unless asked, and she often found isolated locations around Sanctuary to sit on her own while Gibbs fulfilled his duties as the Voice during the day.

Gibbs was not exempt from his wife's new desire to be alone. She never went out of her way to avoid him, but she rarely sought him out, and her words were few and far between even when it was only the two of them. Only with Tali was Ziva like her old self—she smiled, and laughed, even wrestled with the little girl. Her eyes lit up, and for a few moments her perpetual worry disappeared.

But Gibbs wasn't overly concerned. He wasn't happy about her current withdrawal, but he understood her need to maintain a certain distance. She spoke little, remaining mostly in her own thoughts, but when he was there she remained relaxed, and if he had to attribute a definitive word to how she related to him, it would be _warm_, even if it was silent. And the fact she didn't recoil from his presence was a reassurance in and of itself.

This particular afternoon, he found her perched on the boulder in the Garden. She seemed lost in thought, her eyes unfocused as she gazed into the tree line. In the warm, golden sun, the bright colors of the flowers around her feet only added to the aura of serenity that enveloped her. For a long moment, he simply watched her, taking in the sight of her sitting there in the sun so peacefully.

But then he noticed the little furrow of her brow that told him something was bothering her. Something in her eyes shifted, and concern hit him like a kick in the gut. The change was subtle, but abrupt in his eyes.

She seemed… almost sorrowful.

Squaring his shoulders, Gibbs approached her on deliberately shuffling steps. She heard his approach before he reached the patch of flowers, and turned towards him, the furrow immediately disappearing as her features softened. She scooted over on the rock, silently offering him room to sit next to her. He took it without hesitation, letting his shoulder brush hers as he did so.

"You okay?" he asked.

It had become habit by this point, and she allowed him the practiced question as smoothly as she had in the past weeks.

"I'm okay," she affirmed.

He curled his lips in a soft grin. "Lookin' a little serious over here."

"I was just thinking," she returned vaguely.

"Anything in particular?"

She hesitated, but that same shift in her eyes came back for a split second, and Gibbs sensed her apprehension as clearly as if it were his own, and he knew in an instant what had her so preoccupied. It was the same thing that had been plaguing her ever since her Rescue.

And in the same instant, she knew he knew.

"It's going to get better," he told her softly. He'd told her many times before, but he had no problem telling her again, even if she still didn't believe him. "It will. It just takes a little bit more time."

"I can't, Jethro."

Her response took Gibbs by surprise, and he blinked before asking for clarification.

"Can't what?"

Brown eyes closed against the sudden wariness in his voice, and the stone in the pit of his stomach sank a little bit lower in apprehension.

"Give it time," she answered softly.

At this, he turned to face her, his expression hardening into one of barely concealed alarm.

"What the hell are you talking about, Ziver?" he asked, his voice low. He reached over and took her hand in his, half in reassurance, half in a desire to keep her where she was, knowing her propensity to pace when wanting to avoid talking about something.

To his relief, though, she made no move to leave him. But her eyes were wary, nervous, and ultimately grounded in that ever-present fear.

"I can't stay here, Jethro," she whispered. "I have to move on, and soon. Once I can walk on my own, I'm going to—"

"Stop it," Gibbs interrupted, his tone hardening in the blink of the eye. "Don't even think that."

"Jethro—"

"No, Ziva. _No_. I don't care what you think you have to do for the sake of our safety. If you go out there on your own, then _you_ won't be safe."

"If I keep moving…"

"You don't have to be afraid of him anymore—"

"I am _not_ afraid of him." This time, it was her voice that grew razor-sharp. "Don't make assumptions, Jethro, not when you don't know _anything_—"

"Because you won't _tell_ me—"

"What I _will_ tell you is that I do _not_ fear Damon Werth. He is flesh and blood, just like any other man."

"Then why are you so goddamn quick to run?"

"Because I cannot let him find me here. I do not fear him, but I know what he will do if he follows me here, and I fear who else will have to pay for my freedom."

"He's not going to find you here—"

"Yes, he will, Jethro, don't you get it? He's not going to just forget about me! He's not just going to let me go, he's going to look. He's going to search for me, and he will not stop searching until he finds me and destroys everything and every_one_ who stands against him."

Gibbs fell silent, taking a deep breath to keep his growing frustration—and fear—at bay. Anger he would prefer to direct at Damon Werth was being misdirected now, and he was overcome with the desire to grip her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. Because what she was suggesting was just nuts.

"So what, you're just going to disappear again?" he remarked snidely. "And what about the rest of us? You're okay to leave us wondering if you're alive or dead, even Captured again?" He gave her a hard look. "I don't think so."

"Jethro—"

"I can't go through that again, Ziva. I can't. And what about Tali? She just found you again. Do you know what it'll do to her if you suddenly disappear?"

"It is better than the alternative—"

"You wanna know what happened today?" he continued, interrupting her. She fell silent, her eyes locked on his in a burning gaze. "She left the Shirt at Sergei's, when she came to see you this morning." He paused for emphasis, but the importance didn't seem to register. "She's never left that thing anywhere, Ziver. She's kept it with her for every waking moment since you left. And this morning, on some level she realized she didn't need it anymore. Because she has the real thing now, Ziva. She has _you._"

"She'll be safer without me here," came the hard reply. "I need her to be safe."

"And she will be. She _is_. I know it doesn't seem that way, but this place is secure. Your apprehension is a common side effect."

"Side effect? _Side_ _effect_? Is that what you think this is? A _side_ _effect_?"

"Well, what the hell else am I supposed to call it? You won't tell me a damn thing, and I understand why you don't want to, but Jesus, Ziva, I have no idea how to convince you that this place is safe. You've seen this place. You've seen how we've learned to defend it, how to guard it. It's more secure than the Warehouse ever was."

"And I'm telling you that it's not enough," she said, her voice suddenly tired. "You don't understand. You've been away from the city so long, you've forgotten to be afraid. Your fear of the Bloods has turned into a distant nightmare, but I know that their ferocity has not dwindled. They have gained in numbers _and_ ordnance, and their sphere of influence has grown tenfold. Damon is no fool, and warfare is his element. He will tear this place down around your ears in his pursuit of me, and I refuse to let that happen. I will _not_ allow you, or Tali, or Sergei, or anyone else here to fall victim to the twisted cruelty of the Bloods."

She stood then, swiftly positioning her crutches under her. Her agility emphasized the very real weight behind her promise—her vow to leave as soon as she was able—and it filled Gibbs with a trepidation he had not felt in a long time.

"Ziva, please…"

She paused in her departure, and brown eyes that were once familiar stared back down at him. They were filled with sorrow, guilt, and, more than anything, despair.

"I'm sorry, Jethro." Her voice was low, and heavy. "But I can't let any of you die for me. For you to lose all of this you've created, because of me." She turned away, her focus shifting back to the picturesque view of Sanctuary afforded her. Her expression was so sorrowful, it broke Gibbs' heart, even as she imparted four last words.

"I'm not worth it."


	29. The Plan

_A/N: So here we go! I know it's been a while, but this is my priority for the next couple of weeks. I'm gonna see if I can't go ahead and knock out the rest of this story! So, read, and remember, reviews feed the muse. HEY! I'm poet now too! AWESOME!_

* * *

Ziva had never been one who enjoyed being idle.

Before the Incident, she had been Mossad through and through, though even at NCIS she'd had enough to do with her job that she was never truly without purpose. She'd learned early that to keep moving was to keep your mind off whatever maybe lurking in the back of her mind, and it seemed that even now that held true.

For here she was, sitting on the porch of the house, watching the rest of the Sanctuary going about their work for the day. Most days she tried to join them—or more often, supervised while providing conversation, since not one of them were likely to let her help.

But today, she simply sat there, watching and thinking.

It was so peaceful. It was almost sinful, it so peaceful. Everything was quiet, with the murmur of conversing Residents and the sounds of the birds in the forest. But she knew if for what it was. It was nothing more than a mask of bitter deceit.

It was a simple life, safe and secure. But it wasn't permanent. She knew that. This place… its survival was tenuous at best, especially now. But its fragility was even more dangerous because the Residents wanted it so badly.

They had been running for so long, they wanted to believe that this place could keep them safe forever. They hadn't run into any gangs since coming here, and there was ample food and they could even build fires during the night to keep warm. Such simple accommodations were hard to come by in the years since the Incident—they were downright rare. No wonder they wanted to hang onto it.

Even Jethro, usually so level-headed, couldn't see the risk. Well, actually, Ziva suspected he saw it—he just chose to ignore it. He wanted the best of both worlds, and was taking huge gamble in order to preserve both facets of his life; her, and the Sanctuary.

He couldn't make the decision, Ziva knew. But she could.

And it was little wonder why she felt the need to preserve this peace for them. They had risked everything by Rescuing her—she had no right prolonging the risk. Even if she left now, there would be no guarantee she'd be able to divert the Bloods' arrival. It would be risky, and would involve a delicate balance of cat and mouse, and relied heavily on Damon's ability to interpret the markers she left behind.

She would go back towards the City, get close enough to intercept the most likely route the Bloods would take in following Gibbs' trail, and then head due south, away from the Sanctuary. There was a keen risk of her running into other Gangs, and it was that risk she was counting on. She would be able to move through their territory easily—the Bloods wouldn't.

The other Gangs would see the Bloods' movement as territorial aggression, and would respond in kind. The Bloods would then be delayed by skirmishes, if not an all-out war. It could even prove to be enough of a deterrent to turn Damon off her trail for good. But just in case it wasn't, she would leave signs for him, little clues to remind him that she was out there, and he was on her trail.

He would know something was hinky if he did recognize her signs. And odds were, Damon would even figure out why she was doing it. He would know that she was trying to defend her Rescuers, and he could probably even deduce that it had been Jethro who had stolen her back.

And there was a risk that they would push on anyway, and find the Sanctuary, but she was banking on the fact that his possession of her overrode his pride. He would only go back for Gibbs once he had her back in his grasp—then he would be able to gloat _and_ annihilate all life in the Sanctuary. And she would not allow that to happen. She had been through too much to be captured alive, and once she healed, she would be able to defeat anyone who stood in her way. Even if they caught her, she would make sure she was dead before they ever got their hands on her again.

But first she had to get off the crutches.

She was healing, that much was certain. It simply wasn't happening at a pace she was satisfied with. And at the same time, she didn't want to push herself too hard to heal too soon, because that would only set herself back even further than she already was. She'd tried taking her first steps without the crutches the other day, and had barely taken two before her legs gave out under the strain and pain.

She sighed, closing her eyes against the memory. She was tired of being injured. She'd been injured for the past two years—it was exhausting. And even though she'd had worse injuries, none had had as much banking on its quick healing as this one did.

Ziva settled back in her chair, watching Tali sprint towards the house, Sergei close on her heels. She smiled, her heart both warming and breaking at the sight of her daughter's broad smile and twinkling eyes.

She wanted to watch Tali grow into the woman she was sure to be. She wanted to be there for that little girl, to make up for lost time.

But some things were more important. It didn't matter who watched Tali grow up, so long as she actually had the chance to grow up at all.

Ziva knew what she had to do.

She only hoped she had time to do it before the Sanctuary began to burn.


	30. The Arrival

_A/N: FINALLY! I did it! It works! And thank the gods and all that is holy, it is now also posted! And it's a decent sized installment too, so hopefully it sates y'alls appetite for death and destruction. But hey, if it's not, rest assured, there's plenty more on the way. How, you ask? Well, keep reading and find out!_

_Thanks for remaining (kinda) patient with me and my disappearing muse!  
_

_Enjoy!_

_

* * *

_

Four days later they are yanked roughly from their deep sleep when the sound of the front door slamming open echoes like a gunshot through the house. Ziva's awake in less than a second, but Jethro is wrapped around her and he is slower to react, his instincts tempered by years of quiet.

He doesn't have a chance to get out of the room before the first Blood swings a pipe into his midsection. Ziva watches him fall, his body thudding heavily to the pitted hardwood before she becomes the next target. A second Blood screams into the room, stepping on Jethro as he did so, and grabbed a handful of her hair in his fist.

The tattooed face becomes a mask of surprised pain when she sinks the knife she keeps under her pillow into his gut. Old habits die hard, and the warm blood that spills over her hands carries a scent that is all too familiar. Heightened senses hear the startled fearful scream from Tali's room down the hall, a sound she never in her life wanted to hear.

But another Blood is on her, tearing her weapon away before she can do anything at all, and then she is being dragged from the bed. The first Blood already has backup helping him wrestle Jethro down the stairs, and she follows, dragged unceremoniously down the stairs, her legs scrabbling uselessly for strength that wasn't there.

Above her, another Blood has an arm around Tali, hefting her over his hip like she was no more than a sack flour. Terrified blue eyes are filled with tears, and stare at her in fear and bewilderment at the violence. She's never felt it before, this fear. Ziva knows—it's right there in those wide blue eyes.

They are all dragged into the front yard of the House, and to her surprise it is not burning. In fact, it is silent except for the sound of her own grunts of pain. But as soon as they emerge the dozens of Bloods that are gathered the Courtyard seem to explode into motion, cued by some silent signal to dash wildly into the houses, weapons swinging haphazardly.

Ziva is forced to her knees, her arms twisted painfully behind her back while a knee between her shoulder blades presses her down until her forehead brushes the grass. Jethro is lined up beside her, and the Blood holding Tali stands off to the side—Ziva tracks the sound of his boots squelching in the muddy ground.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees the families being torn out of the closest houses—no visible injury among them. It is such a stark contrast to what she expected that she knows this time, it is not a nightmare.

It was reality, and she would not be waking up.

The Bloods she can see are restless, edgy, quivering with suppressed bloodlust. They want to kill, but something is staying their hand—and it is their hesitation that both gives her hope and fills her gut with dread.

Only one person on Earth had that kind of power over them.

The frightened cries of the Residents fall dead silent just as familiar bloodstained boots come into Ziva's line of vision.

_Damon._

The boots pause in front of her. She braces herself for a kick to the head or a knife to the shoulder, but to her surprise they remain firmly planted on the ground until they pace to where Jethro knelt beside her.

A dirty, unwashed hand reaches out and gripped Jethro by the jaw, forcing his head up at an unnatural angle. But the Voice doesn't show his pain, if he felt any.

"Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs."

Damon's gruff voice held a hint of amusement.

"Son of a bitch," he remarked. "Id've thought an old man like you would be long dead by now." Ziva hears that constant, superior smirk in his voice, though she can't see it. "But then again, I shouldn't be all that surprised, right? Takes more than the end of the world as we know it to kill a Marine… _Adapt and overcome_. Isn't that what they used to say?"

Damon stood then, and for a moment Ziva thought he was about to return his attention to her. But in a flash, a boot lashed out and caught Jethro in the side of the head, sending him reeling. Tali cried out in fear and shock, but Ziva remained silent, knowing the show of violence was punishment for her as much as it was for her husband.

It was then that the boots came back to her, and leather-clad knees knelt in her line of vision.

Calloused fingers caress her cheek, and an involuntary shudder courses through her frame. In an instant, the gentility is gone, and a knife is at her throat before she can blink. Some Residents gasp in fear for her, but she does not flinch, does not blink.

She knows this game. The tension she'd been trying to shake since the Rescue is now once again at home in her bones, serving its purpose. She hates that this has become normal, that it actually eases some of the twisted knots in her gut. But she's always appreciated a threat she can see and fight, so she really shouldn't be surprised.

She waits, wanting to strike, but she is painfully aware of Tali's muffled sobs above her. She doesn't know what to do—she's confused, because no one is dead yet. And Damon is now coiled tight as a bow, and the wrong move will set him off, unleashing the full power of the Black Blood Gang on the now-corralled Residents.

"Did you know that I almost lost fifty men going after the jokers up north?" he growled low in her ear. "I actually thought they had the stones to steal what was mine." The steel of the knife pressed sharply into her skin, and she felt the sting that meant first blood had been drawn. "But then I remembered… You know you sometimes murmur his name in your sleep?"

No. She didn't know. She'd hoped to never give him any idea that Jethro still lived. But it explains how she was found so quickly—he'd known exactly what to look for.

"I tracked you to that dump that used to be NCIS—had my boys check the morgue, and found the blood. But no body, so I figured a tough cunt like you would've survived my little gift…" He smirks, and the knife presses just a little deeper. "Then, I tracked you here. Nice setup. Too bad I have to kill everything in sight."

More cries of fear rippled through the gathered Residents at his declaration. Jethro has recovered, and he tries to shove of the Blood holding him down, to no avail. "Bastard!" he growls, low in his throat.

Ziva feels Damon pause and turn, and she can imagine the amused smirk she knows so well.

"Yeah, I guess I am," he responds unconcerned. But then the aloofness disappeared as his voice suddenly became darker, more dangerous, as if a flip had been switched. "But you're the weasel that creeps around in the dark to steal what belongs to gods."

Ziva steels herself, fighting back a flinch at his words.

He'd never referred to himself as a god before. He'd often acted like one, and the Bloods obeyed his every whim as if he were, but never had _anyone_ said it aloud. Dread settled deep in Ziva's gut—it was just one more sign that the man who was once the pride and joy of the Marine Corps had lost his mind, and one more stretch of treacherous water she would have to navigate to somehow keep the Sanctuary intact.

It wasn't burning yet—it was the only reason she still had that small flicker of hope that the Residents could be saved. She herself would not be included in that number, but it didn't matter. She'd long ago accepted that she would never be free again, and she was okay with that as long as Tali remained safe.

The knife disappears suddenly, and she hears him move swiftly to his feet. She knows what's coming next.

"Burn it—"

"DAMON!"

Ziva's voice cuts through the night like a razor, and she doesn't stop to wonder where its strength came from. Unease flutters through the crowd, both Resident and Blood alike, as Damon's boots freeze on the grass. Slowly, menacingly, he finally deigns to turn to glare at the one who dared interrupt him.

She looks to Jethro, her plan already forming, and she knows that he can see it in her eyes. He's not happy, but there is a measure of understanding—it had always been about the greater good. But he's looking for a promise, one she cannot give.

Not this time.

There's no coming back this time.

Damon must have motioned to the ones holding her down, because suddenly she is released, and shakily pushes herself up until she is sitting on her feet, still kneeling. She lifts her head, unwaveringly looking Damon in the eye.

She will not show weakness; to do so would spell the end of them all, even her. Fearlessness had saved her thus far, and she hopes it will be enough to save them all.

"These people are not a threat to you," she informs him firmly. "No challenge. There's no point in killing them."

He smirks at her. "We don't need a point," he proclaims, almost proudly.

"A deal, then."

She thinks that this must be what Tony always meant by a Hail Mary.

And now she has the full attention of the entire Black Blood Gang. It's different though, this time. Before, they focused on her to see blood and lust—now they are listening. And Damon is threatened, she sees it in his eyes. He's walking a precipice, one that decides the fate of everyone present.

"This pit of mud and piss has nothing to offer," he snarls, leaning in close until their noses are nearly touching. "Absolutely nothing I want."

"You want me."

Her voice is soft, but not with fear. She holds his gaze, watching it as it shifts from a glare to… something else.

"Give me your word that you'll leave these people be, and that you'll leave the town intact, and I will come with you willingly."

She has his attention now, if she hadn't before, and she hopes she knows him as well as she thinks she does.

"I could take you anyway," he tells her. "Tie you up and drag you behind us all the way back to the City…"

"Where I will end my own life the first chance I get," she finishes for him. She can tell he doesn't quite believe her. "You think I couldn't have strangled myself on that damn collar a thousand times over?" she whispers forcefully. "I could and I will, if you kill them."

He glares at her. "You don't have the balls," he declares.

"The only reason I haven't yet is because I promised him I wouldn't." Her head nods slightly in Jethro's direction, but Damon doesn't even glance at the pinned agent. "And now I'm promising _you_."

A familiar spark ignites in his dark eyes, alerting her to his genuine interest.

Control.

It's all about control. He thrives on it, needs it. And she was offering him the control of her very life. He's had that control for years, but never so bluntly, and never on her own terms. It's another level of control that has him slavering at the very thought.

"Think about it, Damon." Her voice lowers to a sultry pitch. "You think _he_ is a threat to you? Because I chose _him_?" She nods towards Jethro again, and this time she feels another piece of her soul die as she offers up a prayer that one day, her husband might forgive her.

"You slashed my ankles, Damon. I couldn't have gone anywhere under my own power if I wanted to. He stole me from you. Hit you from behind like a coward and stole an ungrateful whore from your bed. But I'm willing to return to you without a fight. They'll say I know my place," she whispers. "I know who my master is. That's what they'll see, and that's what they'll whisper amongst themselves in the dark."

He regards her for a long moment, and she never once lets her gaze waver. She feels Jethro's eyes but ignores him. She can't face the disgust she knows will be in his eyes, or worse the silent pleas for her to not make the same sacrifice that had gotten them into this situation in the first place.

"Things will return to the way they were before. I'll fight, and I will hate you with every fiber of my being," she promises. It's a reassurance, to both of them—she's always known he gets off on the fact that every moment of the past two years has been against her will. He likes the challenge. "And I'll keep breathing. Surviving."

Just like before.

"Give me your word, Damon," she urges. "Your word as a Marine."

The sacred word jolts him, it seems. Some might not have thought Damon held his heritage in any sort of esteem, but Ziva knew better. He was bitter, yes, with the way that the system had squeezed him out from the Corps. But the way he held onto the lingo, and continued to hold himself the exact same way he had that day she'd seen him in his dress blues…

He would never admit aloud, but the word of a Marine still meant something, even in his warped and fractured mind.

It had to.

For a long, tenuous moment, Ziva didn't move. She didn't breathe, didn't blink, as Damon considered the offer. It was the moment of truth, when he decided on the fate of nearly a hundred people.

His response was subtle. A shifting in the set of his jaw, and a slightly different glint in his eye. A little less dangerous, a little more smug. Superior always. But he's accepted her terms, and that's all she cares about.

But when he stands and moves to the center of the impromptu Gathering, she realizes that he has terms of his own. Her surrender must be public, or it would mean nothing at all. And she would play along, unless she wanted to watch her nightmare come alive.

He turned back on his heel to face her, his features hard as stone.

"Come here."

The words are benign, but his tone wasn't, and the Bloods respond to the new development like dogs that had caught the scent of fresh meat. They all press closer, but maintain the line, not daring to cross the man who now held all of the cards.

It's only then that Ziva realizes her crutches were still upstairs, leaning uselessly against the bedroom wall. She is on her own, in more ways than one.

She plants her hands on the ground and somehow manages to get her feet under her. Standing is another feat entirely, though, and her shaky attempt to do so wrenches something in her right ankle. The unexpected pain sends her staggering into the Blood that had hauled her down the stairs.

True to form, he pushes her away, and she stumbles, but she regains her balance long enough to take three shuffling, hesitant steps to where Damon was waiting.

She doesn't want to show weakness, and she certainly doesn't want to supplicate, but on the fourth step her barefoot settles on a sharp rock, and her already tender right ankle rolls. Something tears in her leg, but the pain is eclipsed by the knowledge that she is suddenly sprawled on the ground in front of Damon.

Her arms are the only thing keeping her from being flat on her face, but it isn't enough. Damon looms over her, a smirk on his lips.

"Talk about your proper place," he says, loud enough for the entire Sanctuary to hear.

Ziva takes a deep breath, pulling her mask into place. She glares but says nothing. He reaches down, perhaps to grab her hair and pull her to her feet, but instincts take over and she knocks it away with a vicious swipe of her arm.

His smirk freezes, and turns ice cold in the blink of an eye.

But the blow she expects doesn't come. Instead, he drops something light on the ground in front of her.

"Put it on," he orders.

Looking down, her chest tightens when she sees what he's dropped. It's a collar.

Not the one she'd worn for almost two years. It's a simple leather strap, with a dull silver buckle, but the sequence of little dog bones stamped along its length hits her like a kick in the gut. He's planned for this, she realizes—not her offer, but he'd planned on collaring her anyway. And he's made certain it would be as humiliating as possible.

But she swallows her indignation, and lifts the worn leather with trembling fingers. A sob catches in her throat, but she swallows that too. _No weakness_, she scolds herself. But her mind saw Abby's tear-filled eyes, that day she'd had the first true wash in years, when the scientist had seen the damage her metal leash had done to her neck.

Ziva was glad her friend had never gotten the chance to see the damage that had been done on the inside.

She tries not to hear Jethro's muted efforts to get free, tried not to imagine the thoughts that are going through Tony's, Sergei's minds. Tries not to think of the terror and confusion in young blue eyes. She focuses instead on the task at hand, and Damon watches with sharp eyes until the collar is snug around her neck.

She is so deep in her humiliation that she doesn't see his hand snake down again until he held a huge hank of hair in his fist. He hauls her up, pulling her even with him, and then moves in to claim her lips with his own.

But in his rush to mark his territory, he leaves his neck exposed. Her fingers dart up without conscious effort, and jab the vulnerable pressure point on the side of his thick neck.

He reacts instantly, throwing her from him with enough force to rattle her teeth when her back impacts with the ground. But whatever pain she's caused him doesn't shake him long, because a moment later he is on her, one hand around her throat, the other working his fly.

Reality settles over her like a dark, suffocating blanket, and she accepts it.

But she doesn't want her family to see this.

She ignores the fingers constricting her air supply, and firmly wraps both hands around the wrist at his groin.

"Please." Her voice is a whisper, and not just because of the arm at her throat.

His eyes narrow, and she knows that she is treading a dangerously thin line. Her eyes track to Jethro, and to where Tali is staring with wide eyes.

"My daughter is watching," she confesses softly. It's a risk, she knows, but the idea of her family watching her debasement makes her desperate. "Damon… _please_."

Her pride is nonexistent, and looking into his eyes, she thinks he knows. And then, she sees the rage fade, and his lust disappears suddenly, as though her words were a cold shower. The aggression remains, though, and before she could even wonder what it must mean, his fist is slamming into her face.

Her vision goes dark before her skull cracks into the hard ground.

* * *

Jethro sees Damon go down on top of Ziva, and his efforts to escape double, his mind flashing with images of a dirty football stadium and a battered Ziva. But his captors don't give him an inch, and he is forced to watch as Ziva remains perfectly calm, and her hands still Damon's with an almost gentle touch.

He knows she's never done it before, if the Blood's reaction is any indication. He's tense, but not quite wary, and waits for Ziva to whisper something. Jethro can't hear what's said, but both their eyes track towards where he's being restrained. Then the Blood looks back to Ziva, and doesn't move for a long, indeterminable moment.

But then Jethro blinks and the next thing he sees is Ziva's body going limp, blood trailing from her nose that is more than likely broken. Because though he didn't see it, he'd heard the crunch of bone and the near-overlapping snap of her head hitting the ground.

Damon flips her over with ease, and a moment later her wrists are bound behind her back with a ziptie he pulls from his pocket. Then, with mechanical efficiency, he hefts her up, and loads her over a shoulder. He turns, and surveys his men.

The entire Sanctuary waits with bated breath, waiting for his decision.

"Move out."

The command is blunt and definite, and a rustle of surprise travels through the gathered Bloods. Jethro recognizes their displeasure. They've come for death, and weren't used to leaving a slaughter unsatisfied.

The crowd hesitates, neither moving to follow Damon nor to give in to their bloodlust.

But then there's a flash of movement, and a Blood dashes towards a group of Residents, and Jethro sees the bastard's eyes are zeroed in on Abby.

She screams in fear, and Tim moves to intercept, his knowledge of his own forfeited life dark in his eyes.

But before contact is made a shot rings out across the courtyard. The Blood drops like a stone, his skull little more than a popped melon.

All eyes fly to the source of the gunshot, and cold dark eyes regard them all with the same icy glare.

"I said _move out_," Damon growls, his gun hand still outstretched towards the errant gang member, the barrel of the handgun still smoking.

It's only when the Bloods carefully start to move towards the treeline that the gun lowers. Jethro is released, and Tali is roughly shoved into his arms. She immediately starts to cry, burying her face into his shoulder as her arms take up a strangling hold around his neck.

He looks up from comforting his daughter to see Damon regard him for a long, cool moment before turning away, something dark and unfathomable in his gaze. And then all Jethro can see is the Bloods' retreating backs and Ziva's limp form disappearing into the shadows of the night.

His chest is tight with fear, despair, and the sinking sensation that this glimpse of her slight frame will be the last time he will ever see her.

The Residents are left staring in shock, not quite comprehending what has just happened. The Sanctuary is still standing, and they are all alive. But their Shadow is gone once more, and they don't know what to do next.

The Council silently draws closer, seeking the guidance they've relied on for years. For long, tearful moments, none is forthcoming, and he knows they wonder if they didn't lose him with Ziva. And honestly, he wonders too.

But the child in his arms grounds him, and he turns to Sergei with a direct gaze.

"Set up a perimeter around the Sanctuary. Stay within the treeline. Wait until dawn, then get a party together to collect the bodies of the sentries." The seven Residents on guard duty tonight had to have been killed he realizes almost belatedly. It's the only way the Bloods would have been able to sneak up on them so completely.

Sergei nods, and wordlessly moves off to complete his assigned task. He looks to the other Councilmembers, and knows they need more than he can give right now. So instead he turns to the rest of the Residents, who are still standing where the Bloods had left them.

They too, are looking to him for answers.

"Everyone needs to go to their homes and remain indoors until further notice. Keep quiet, and try to stay as calm as possible." His voice is calm and collected, and he hates himself for it.

Thankfully, the Residents seem relieved for even such simple instructions, and they all move back into their respective homes. Doors close behind them, one by one, until only Sergei's party and the Council are left.

Jethro looks at them, his team, and sees the same despair in their eyes that threatens to swallow him whole.

"Gibbs…" Abby's voice is quiet, tremulous, and heartbroken. "Please, tell me that didn't just happen."

He swallows painfully. "It happened, Abby." His voice is gravelly to his own ears, and thick with tears he refuses to let Tali see.

"No," Tony disagrees. "No. Not again. We can't let her do this—"

"She made her decision, DiNozzo."

"You can't tell me you're okay with it—!"

"No, I'm not." Jethro keeps his voice calm, in a vain attempt to ease Tali's sobs. "But you can't tell me you wouldn't have done the exact same thing in her place, Tony."

It's always been about the greater good. They all know it, and they all know that the way of life that the Sanctuary and its Residents are trying to preserve is worth the life of one person, or even a dozen.

The humanity the Bloods had lost—that was their burden, their treasure.

"She's Survived two years," McGee reminds them. "She never stopped fighting. She might escape them on her own."

But she won't. Jethro knows in his gut that she won't. He'd wanted her to promise him that she'd come back to him. She wasn't able to. Not this time. It was an unspoken condition of her agreement with Damon—the continued safety of the Sanctuary in return for her continued presence in the City. The Sanctuary was only safe so long as she remained in Damon's clutches.

And she'd accepted it, just as she had two years ago.

But this time, things were different. This time, Jethro knows exactly where she was. This time, he knows what kind of numbers they're up against, and the rough layout of how the City has been restructured.

This time, he can make a difference.

"What're we gonna do, Gibbs?" Abby's plaintive inquiry comes in shaky tones, and she almost seems startled by the clarity in his eyes when he meets her gaze squarely.

"We're gonna get her back," he tells her firmly, his hand rubbing soft circles on Tali's back. The little girl is mumbling into his neck now, exhausted from the traumatic night, but he hears words that sound heartbreakingly like _Mommy_.

"Jethro…" It's Ducky that speaks up this time, playing the devil's advocate. "If you do manage to liberate her once more, we will only find ourselves in the same situation once again. And next time, Ziva may not be able to save the rest of us."

"That," he answers firmly, "is why we're going to take out the Black Blood Gang while we're at it."

They stare at him in stunned silence.

"Boss," McGee says, his words more hesitant than they've been in years. "How exactly do you think we're going to do that?"

Jethro grins mirthlessly, his heart hauntingly devoid of emotion. When he answers, his voice is hard as stone.

"We're gonna kill 'em all."


	31. The Descent

_A/N: I'm back! Or rather, the story is back. Yes, I know that I'm way behind on this. I meant to have this done months ago. But between school, new ideas for a completely different verse of fanfiction, and a crisis of plot, it's taken me this long to get back on track. And now I know better than to try and put a deadline on myself because once I do that, I almost always renege. So, I'll the next chapter up as soon as I can, should the muse be willing._

_Thank you for remaining patient! And, as always, Enjoy!_

* * *

Ziva came to slowly, her growing awareness limited to little more than a hazy buzz by the pounding in her head. Her face felt thick, heavy. She could barely breathe, until she thought to part her lips and suck in a lungful of muggy air. Her nose was broken, by the feel of it—the ache extended just past the corners of her eyes, eyes she knew better than to open. She knew well from prior experience that to open them would only bring more pain, in the form of sharp, lancing blades of sunlight.

It was several moments before she noticed the subtle rumbling of the floor beneath her. Lying on her side, her arm pressed against warm metal that was gritty with sand, dried mud, and decidedly less innocuous substances. The stink of petrol tickled her senses, triggering a vivid flash of memory that told her exactly where she was.

She was in the back of military grade truck—Damon once called it a seven-ton. It was the same truck she'd been loaded into that first Harvest. The motion of the truck bed was rough enough that she knew they had yet to pass into the City; the road they were on now was in disrepair, if it was paved at all.

The sound of raucous men carried to her ears, muffled by the tarp that covered her and the rest of the vacant truck bed. At least, she believed it was vacant—she didn't hear the heavy mouth breathing seeming trademarked by the Bloods, nor did her nostrils pick up the sharp body odors most Bloods carried around them like a shroud.

A crack of her eyelids affirmed her lonely suspicions, and she let her eyes close once more with a distinct sense of relief.

She broken fingers ached, as the always did when her hands were bound behind her for any considerable length of time. She discovered through a careful inventory that her legs remained unbound, though half a breath later she realized why when an attempt to move sent a blaze of pain racing up her legs.

She couldn't tell if the stitches had actually torn, but she could feel that something was wrong regardless. Something in her right ankle rubbed—grated, really—and she recalled vaguely that she'd stumbled on a rock in the final moments of her short-lived freedom.

Flashes of more memories came to her—Jethro's soundless plea for her to not give in, Tali's fear… The circumstances of her reCapture came rushing back to her, turning her stomach. The only reprieve was the distinct absence of pain between her legs—Damon had honored their deal.

She was a little surprised, but she didn't waste the effort to wonder why he'd spared her. It didn't matter. Nothing did.

Her fate was unchanged. It had been sealed the moment the collar had been cinched around her neck, and even now, it weighed as heavily as a leaden yoke.

With an unexpected lurch, Ziva felt the road even out underneath the truck's wheels, heralding their approach to the City. She took a deep breath, steadying herself against the burning dread growing more and more tangible in the pit of her stomach. As she listened, the men's shouting slowly took on a new pitch, and she realized the slight echoing timber of their voices was a result of the buildings growing taller and closer together.

They'd reached the City.

Ziva pressed her pounding head against the hot metal floor, struggling desperately to banish her most recent memories from her mind. She'd been blessed, she recognized, by those few short weeks with her family, amidst people who couldn't have had her death further from their minds. She hadn't realized it at the time, but it was something she'd taken for granted.

Now, she could almost feel the noose tightening around her neck, and the growing aggression of the men outside pressing closer as they sensed that home was near.

As they pushed deeper into the city, Ziva felt the quiet safety of the woods drifting further and further away. The scent of grass and flowers morphed into the growing stench of gasoline, blood, and filth. It hung over the city like a blanket, encompassing all with suffocating totality. And with it came fresh memories of Games and Cullings and Harvests, all ending in bloody deaths and screams for mercy.

There was a gap between the tarp ceiling of the seven-ton and the anchor points—through it, she could see slivers of blackened windows and graffiti-covered buildings. Nothing but burned out husks of what civilization had once been, now mocked by the crude, blatant symbols of anarchy decorating the abandoned structures.

In her mind, she could see men and women in business suits traversing the sidewalks now littered with rusted nails and broken glass, going about their jobs without a care in the world, completely unaware of the future that awaited them.

How many of her captors had once been like those people, so normal and tame? She knew in her heart that she didn't want to know the answer.

In the past two years she'd already spotted a Blood or two who had once graced the halls of the Navy Yard, as fellow agents, security guards, military personnel… Even those few were too many to stomach easily. Only one of them had had the decency to look away when he passed within sight of her. The others had only eyed her like so much meat.

But she tried to embrace the city reality around her, wanted it to stain her soul in a way that she'd refused to let it before. Because if it tainted her spirit she knew she would miss freedom less, ache less for her family. Maybe, just maybe, it could help her forget.

Except her efforts backfired—the more she tried to ignore the flashes of more recent memory, the more vivid and frequent came. Two sets of blue eyes, one world-weary but happy, the other innocent and full of unbridled vivacity, filled her thoughts until they were all she could see.

The city fell away, and against her groggy efforts—her skull continued to pound in time to her pulse—she could herself in the Garden, with a warm rock beneath her and a warmer bundle of energy fidgeting in her lap. In the glinting light of the setting sun, she could see a tall silhouette striding towards her, and in her mind her greeting smile was broad and unbridled. She was content… happy, even.

She didn't know how long she stayed there in the Garden. But the warmth of the setting sun and vibrant colors shattered in an instant when the seven-ton slammed to a halt, jolting her back to harsh, painful, stinking reality.

The tarp was ripped away from the far end of the truck bed, sending shards of blinding light piercing through her skull. She winced, but whoever climbed up into the truck to retrieve her didn't take advantage of her weakness. An iron clad grip swallowed her bicep and yanked her up, dragging her towards the tailgate before she could even try to get her feet under her.

She didn't have time to brace herself before the Blood shoved her out of the truck—she fell the three and a half feet to land hard on her back. Her breath fled from her with an audible whoosh as her skull cracked hard against the pavement.

Her vision blackened as her mind went white with pain. It was several dangerous moments before she remembered to suck in an oxygen-starved breath. Slowly, her vision returned as she lay seemingly forgotten on the littered street. Eventually, she realized that the sharp burning pain in her arm meant that the fall must have broken one of her bound wrists. She didn't quire have the presence of mind to discern which wrist was damaged.

When a shadow fell over her, shielding her from the blinding sunlight, she could just barely recognize Damon's outline through the haze of pain. After a moment he crouched down, bringing his face within inches of hers.

"Welcome home," he snarled, his breath hot on her cheek. His hand caught her chin and wrenched her head to the side until her eyes met his. "If you beg real nice, I _might_ take you back to the tracks for a little… _celebration_."

She didn't need to be fluent in ten languages to know what he meant.

"Go to hell," she gasped breathlessly, mentally cursing her need for oxygen. She only hoped her swollen glare held the fire her voice couldn't.

But Damon only grinned, the expression a twisted parody of the easy smiles he had given her once upon a time, when his only crime had been to love the Corps just a little too much.

Yanking her a couple of inches higher by the front of her shirt, he brought his face even closer.

"Good answer." His voice held no mirth, not even for the gasp of pain that escaped her at the rough handling. "Cause if you had begged," he growled ominously, "I'd have slit your throat."

She believed him. Her response had been genuinely aggressive, but at the same time, she'd known exactly what the terms of her agreement with him had been. He didn't want a dead fish. He wanted a conquest—an angry, fighting conquest.

The minute she stopped fighting was the moment he lost interest in her. He'd kill her, toss her corpse aside, and then shift his attention back to the potential threat the Sanctuary's Residents posed. And then he would go about conquering them as well.

Before she had to give a response, he dropped her abruptly, rising to his feet as she was left to thud limply on the street. He turned to a Blood hovering behind him with hungry eyes.

"Put her with the rest of the Herd," he ordered brusquely. "Chain her up—first level." His voice dropped to a low growl. "No funny business."

She could almost see the lesser Blood's face fall, even as relief stole over her. She'd grown accustomed to the protection Damon's claim on her had afforded—she'd been wary as to whether he would still claim exclusive rights to her. She listened to Damon move away, leaving her to the rough hands of the Blood he'd denied pleasure to.

Hands wandered over her, but the man was now more angry than aroused, for he hefted her onto his shoulder with minimal preamble. He was none too gentle about it— her ribs protested the sharp angle of his shoulder that jutted painfully into her abdomen, and her head swung down against his back unceremoniously, sending shards of pain through her nose a straight to her brain.

She knew exactly where he was taking her, but the trip seemed much longer than she remembered. Their destination was the expansive stone and metal building that sat on the edge of the densest part of the city—a structure formerly used as a prison, back when there were still prisoners to incarcerate. Now it was where the Bloods kept their Herd, the hundreds of Survivors who had fallen prey to the Harvests.

Six stories of grated cells, some of them filled with six or more people who stayed in the cells at all times until they were drafted for a Game. Some were pulled away for a few hours when a Blood sought physical release—even they wouldn't deign to have sex in such squalid conditions. And the conditions on the first level were the worst.

In the summer, it would technically be cooler than the cells on the top floors, as heat rose, but with sometimes as many as seven or eight people to a cell, the difference would be virtually undetectable. And that said absolutely nothing about the accumulated mess the cells had slowly acquired.

The last time she'd been in the prison with the rest of the herd, before that first Culling, she had been on the first level. Even then, it had been difficult to breathe through the growing stench.

She could only imagine what it would be like now, two years later.

Ten minutes later she found out, when they stepped over the threshold of the prison, and were enveloped in a shadowed cloud of waste, disease, and despair. The thunderous racket of moaning, sobbing Survivors didn't slacken at their entrance, but Ziva saw the other inmates cower away from their approach, pressing deeper into their cells as they passed.

Their eyes were wide with fear, but also relief that the body the Blood was carrying like a sack of potatoes wasn't their own.

Her ride paused about halfway through the prison corridor, and nodded for another Blood to unlock the cell they'd stopped in front of. The man—obviously a new acquisition to the gang by the way he scrambled to obey—slid the barred door open.

A hand gripped her bound wrists tightly, even as another fumbled with the collar at her neck. There was a familiar clink of metal on metal and the snick of a lock closing before the Blood carrying her waded through the whimpering Survivors already in the cell.

The hand on her wrists pulled viciously, and she slid off the Blood's shoulders to land heavily on the cement floor. A boot on her chest shoved her into the far corner, where another clunk of metal on metal told her that the second part of Damon's orders had been carried out.

She was chained. Again.

The ziptie around her wrists was cut before both Bloods exited, leaving her with the seven other men and women in the cell. The door clanged shut behind them, and the reverberating echo effectively cut through the cotton in her head.

Her hands flew to the chain connecting her to the metal bedpost, which was itself bolted to the ground, and a frantic investigation told her that a) they'd only left her a foot and a half of slack to work with, and b) the padlock locking the chain to her collar had also been threaded through an eyehole of the leather collar and the D-ring meant for leashes. There was no way she would be getting out of the tether without a key.

She let her head rest against her new hitching post, closing her eyes against the pounding in her head. The metal wasn't cool, or in any way refreshing like she'd hoped it'd be, but it gave her a moment to draw herself together. Her face felt hot to the touch—she lifted her hand and gently fingered the line of her nose. Definitely crooked.

She let her hand cover her eyes, shutting out the close confines of her new cage. But she could still hear the soft murmurs of curiosity as the cell's other occupants grew confident to wonder who she was and why extra measures had been take to keep her secure. At least some of them were male—if one of them decided to try taking advantage, her ability to defend herself would be sorely tested.

"Hey."

A deep voice broke through her cloud of misery, and her head whipped up to meet the empathetic gaze of a male Survivor. But the sudden movement made the room spin around her, and she let her head rest against her drawn up knees with a moan.

"Here."

She peeked out at the man at the sound of his voice, and was greeted with the sight of a damp cloth being proffered. She couldn't hide her surprise at the unexpected sympathy—water was precious here, and to offer even this small gift of it to a newcomer was, to her knowledge, unheard of.

But she accepted it gently, wiping gently at the blood coating her mouth and chin.

"Thanks," she replied, meeting his eyes once more. They were brown, and didn't hold the same emptiness most of the other Survivors' had. He was newer, she decided. A few more months, and he'd either be dead or wishing he was.

She closed her eyes, dismissing him even as she let the damp cloth rest against her throbbing nose. The water was far from cold, but it helped dull the pulsing pain by a hair. Her wrist ached as well, but was decidedly less bothersome than her face at the moment.

She could still move the wrist even, slowly and carefully. It would be a while before she would be able to use it in a Game, but hopefully Damon wouldn't draft her for a few more days.

She figured she'd probably have a week to learn her lesson here in the prison before she began to earn her way back into his good graces. In a manner of speaking.

"Ziva."

It was several seconds before she realized that it was her name being spoken. She opened her eyes to find that same man looking at her intently.

"That's your name, right?" he asked. There was no accusation, no threat in his voice. Just open, easy-going curiosity.

She nodded, but stopped short when the pain reminded her not to. "Yes," she replied. She looked a little bit closer this time, looking for any part of him that looked familiar. But despite having that 'every man' sort of look to him, underneath the grime and sweat, he was decidedly unrecognizable. "Do I know you?"

He shrugged. "Probably not." He scooted closer to her, keeping his back against the wall as he remained sitting, edging closer to her corner. He held out a hand. "Ethan."

She hesitated only a moment, before accepting the offered hand and giving it a heavy shake.

"I know you though," he continued. "We never met, but… you're kind of a legend here." She almost laughed at that, remembering how Tony's Rosie had said almost the exact same thing. He seemed to interpret the twitch of her lips differently though, because he gave quick, self-effacing grin. "Okay, not really a legend. But a lot of people know vaguely who you are."

"Hah. I bet," she scoffed. She could only imagine how the others saw her. By now, most probably knew what Damon used her for—if the rumor mill was strong, she'd be whore to the whole Black Blood Gang—and at worst they would believe she was actually one of the Bloods.

Well, she reminded herself, she had the tattoo for it.

"Hardly anyone knows your name though," Ethan told her. "They only know that they don't want to ever face you in a Game." This time, his grin went unacknowledged. "But I know who you are."

An eyebrow arched at that, mildly curious at his audacity. However, she realized she didn't much care that he was presumptuous. He was… normal, somehow. Still human, despite being here, treated like an animal. And on top of that, he wasn't treating her like a woman who'd lived through hell. Why would he, when he was in the same hell. He didn't even look twice at her leash and collar. It was a comfort, to be taking part in such a healthy conversation.

"You're one of the Twelve," he delivered, his voice suddenly low. "The last."

She froze.

How could he know? It explained how he knew her name—the first few Harvests had bonded, as fellow inmates, and in the weeks before the first Culling, the Twelve had been well-known as a result of their efforts to spark a revolution. If he'd been there, he would have known her name. But he couldn't have been there. Could he?

She'd believed all of those first Harvests to be dead by now. Even she had only managed to stay alive by the skin of her teeth. And to have been here for two years… his eyes. They weren't dead, desensitized. They should be, after so long. But maybe her name had only been passed on through word of mouth since the Culling.

"You were there?" she asked, her voice soft.

He nodded. "I saw the first Culling. You Survived."

"But…" She hesitated, reluctant to find a kindred spirit in him. If she let herself come to know this man, it could be used against them both in the future. "You're different," she finished finally. "From the others."

"You mean, because I'm not afraid of you?" he clarified. "Well, like I said, I know you. I know what you stood for two years ago. That goes a long way. Besides, I spent my time in Iraq before the Incident."

She perked up at that. "Marines?"

"Army," he corrected, his grin making another appearance. "Did a couple tours there." He paused. "After that… this doesn't really seem all that shocking."

Silence fell over them, but it was definitely more comfortable than it had been five minutes ago. It made sense that he was military. It would have been easy for him to accept this. It would have been easier for him to Survive the Games. It was easy for her to relate to military personnel. She knew the military—she'd practically been raised in it.

And, if she were fully honest with herself, she seemed to have a soft spot when it came to military men.

"I guess the rumors are true then," he went on after a few moments. "You got out of here."

She didn't say anything for a long moment; she was partly lost in her thoughts and partly too engrossed in trying to read his intentions to answer. Again, he didn't seem to be at all covert in his attempts at conversation. It didn't appear that he was trying to weasel information from her. So odds were he wasn't an informant for the Bloods. Perhaps, she reasoned silently, he'd found a kindred spirit in her as well.

"What makes you say that?" she asked noncommittally.

He took a moment of his own before answering.

"It's just—well, you smell…" He paused. "Different."

Ziva could vaguely remember saying something similar to Jethro, after they'd left the Navy Yard. But she shoved it as far as she could from her mind, desperate to keep her thoughts of him so deep inside that even she couldn't get at them. "You mean I don't smell like sweat, blood, and—" She waved at the walls and Survivors around them, both smudged with god knows what, "you know."

He grinned, but shook his head. "No," he countered. Then he hesitated. "Well, yes. But it's more than that."

Ziva gave him a small, understanding smile but said nothing. She knew what she smelled like, and after so long, the scents probably seemed foreign to the man's senses. God knew they had been to her. But again, she banished the memories from her mind.

The sooner she forgot about the trees and the grass and actual soap, the better she'd be. And the man, Ethan, let the silence hang for a couple minutes, until she'd almost forgotten they'd been talking by the time he finally finished voicing his thoughts.

"You smell like freedom."


	32. The Pitch

_A/N: It's back! About damn time, right? Well, this is kinda short, but it sets up some of what's slated to come in the future. Don't even ask how many chapters I think I have left- I have no idea. I know how it's gonna end, and the rough details in between, but the number of chapters? NO FREAKING CLUE. But I tell myself that I absolutely will not start another NCIS fic without first finishing this one, so I guess I better get back on it, eh? :D_

_As Always, Enjoy! P.S. This is kinda for Chemmie. Soon enough for yah? ;P_

* * *

"Dammit, Jethro, will you just slow down a minute?"

Tobias Fornell was not as young as he used to be, and the years since the Incident had not been as kind to him as they had to his old friend. Which he assumed was the reason why Gibbs was able to stride so swiftly from room to room in his house, throwing items and clothes into a deep rucksack, while he himself had so much pain in his knees that he could barely keep up.

"We don't have a minute, Tobias," Gibbs returned stonily. "The Bloods could come back at a moment's notice. We have to Evacuate, and we have to do it now."

"So you get your people shipped off to the next location—then what? You're still going to go after her. You really think you can get her back alone?"

"Did it before," came the terse reply. Fornell ignored the insult he was sure Gibbs didn't really mean.

"Dammit, Werth is no fool, Jethro. He's not going to let her go so easy again. If you go after her, he could kill her just so you can watch." The idea made both of them wince inwardly. But it was the god-honest truth—they both knew that all bets were off where Werth was concerned. He was cold-blooded murder, the worst of a bloodthirsty gang of rapists and pillagers. "And after that damn goose chase up north, he'll have to save face with the rest of his men. They're gonna be itching for blood, and you'll be just what they need to get their rocks off."

"I'm not going to leave her there. She's coming home, one way or another." The unspoken message—dead or alive, he wasn't going to let his wife stay in the hands of the Bloods any longer than absolutely necessary.

But Fornell wasn't about to let him get off so easy. "And that speech you gave your scientist, Abby… was that all rhetoric to keep her hopes up, or did you really intend to kill them all?" Blue eyes flashed at him. "Oh, you meant you were going to take as many of them down with you as you could manage. Yeah, that's smart…" he drawled snidely.

"Tobias…" the growl went largely unnoticed.

"See, I thought you meant it. Those were fighting words, Jethro—calling for an all-out war on the Black Blood Gang. For the first time, you'd give them something to think about." Tobias shrugged. "But you are a family man now, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised you were chickenshit—"

"Dammit, Fornell!"

"And I almost thought about helping you too."

Tobias watched with no small amount of satisfaction as Gibbs fell absolutely still. "What the hell are you talking about?" he asked gruffly.

"I've been Roving for years, Jethro. You're not the only one who wants to see the Bloods gone for good. They're the only reason most Rovers don't settle down. They don't want to get comfortable, because the moment you put down roots you make yourself a target."

"What're you saying?"

"I'm saying that if you know where to look, there's a lot of people out there who'd be willing to fight."

Gibbs regarded him for a long, silent moment. "And you know where to look?"

Fornell smirked triumphantly, assured that he now had his friend's attention. "You bet your ass I do. There're a few semi-permanent camps out there, and if you give them the word, they'll make sure it spreads to every goddamn Stray and Rover in the state."

The grizzly former FBI agent watched as Gibbs processed what he'd been told. But to his surprise, the man's features darkened, falling into a mask of resignation. "It'll take too long. We don't have that kind of time." A beat passed. "_She _doesn't have that kind of time."

A wash of empathy spilled over Fornell, the little bit of humanity still left in his old bones feeling his friend's pain. But that was nearly instantaneously overwhelmed by impatience and the familiar sensation of tough love taking over.

"A lot of things have changed these past couple of years, Jethro," he delivered, his voice low. "But the Ziva David I know would kick your ass if she heard you say that."

Surprise sparked in tortured blue eyes, and again, Fornell was smugly triumphant. He'd always enjoyed getting a rise out of the Marine, and it seemed no amount of chaos and disorder could tear that away. He quickly took advantage of the opening it gave him.

"I heard the deal she made with Werth," he continued. "Hell, the whole damn town heard it. It was the same damn promise she made you last time, isn't it? That's what that big Russian of yours says. So she made the promise to play along, not escape, but the end result is the same—she promised to Survive."

He glared at his friend. "She just promised to Survive as long as humanly possible, and you have the gall to suggest that running into DC half-cocked would be better than taking the time to slow down and plan an offensive that could take out the Bloods once and for all, just because you think she can't make it a few extra weeks."

"Fornell—"

"Shut up, Gibbs," Tobias cut in sharply. "I get that you're scared for her. Hell, I'm scared for her. I saw that place just like you did. It's not going to be a walk in the park, but she survived two years in there… And we know that Werth wants to keep her around for a while. As sickening as that is, right now it's our greatest advantage. He'll let her heal before making her fight again. He might even pit her against some weak opponents to warm her back up. That'll give us enough time to recruit, plan, and then commit to taking these bastards out."

The room fell silent, and Fornell let Gibbs have his moment to think it over. But a minute later, Fornell could see the objections come right back, and that goddamn stubborn streak of his was allying with his protective instinct. A second later, and Fornell decided to bite the bullet and pull out the big guns.

"If we take the time to do this right, we could give Tali both her parents back—instead of making her an orphan."

Jackpot.

The fight left Gibbs body like air from a popped balloon. His troubled gaze trailed to where a discarded toy cluttered a corner, and Fornell knew he had him. This time, he remained absolutely silent as tired lids closed—maybe the haggard Voice was, for the first time in his life, offering a prayer to a god who had abandoned them all years ago.

Then, with an almost lazy swing of his arm, he tossed the rucksack aside.

Piercing blue eyes fixed Fornell with a fierce gaze. They were in business.

"Let's do this."


	33. The Spark

Sleep came dreamlessly, and in short segments that left Ziva disoriented and uneasy. Being forced to remain sitting as she was made it near unbearable—no doubt what Damon had intended. The short chain didn't let her move much. The most she could manage with the short chain was to lean back against the bed she was secured to. But the slack wasn't enough to let her lean against the wall off to the side, leaving her forced to remain upright and uncomfortable.

It was only a moment later, it felt like, when the loud clang of the door slamming open jolted her back into awareness. The sudden movement of her head sent her swollen nose pounding with pain once more, but she pushed it to the back of her mind. With jangling nerves, she turned as much as she could, just in time to see a faceless Blood throw a handful of half rotted food into the cell before slamming the door shut once more.

In a heartbeat, the others had fallen on the scraps of food like a pack of ravenous wolves. Ziva's own stomach gurgled hungrily, making her wonder how long she really had been sleeping. But her tether kept her far out of reach of the meager offerings, and it was moments before they all disappeared, leaving her hungry and alone in her own little corner.

"Here."

A small, off-color apple was thrust into her line of vision, making her start with surprise. Her gaze raked up the arm holding it, until her eyes found the familiar features of Ethan looking down at her. Still shocked, she accepted the gift wordlessly. She watched him settle down against the wall opposite her, regarding him warily.

He grinned at her. "It's not gonna bite you."

She didn't return his smile. "You should be more careful helping me," she said flatly. "It's dangerous." And it was. If Damon got word that her time in the prison was anything other than absolutely miserable, she wouldn't be the only one punished.

But Ethan only shrugged. "I shoulda been dead for a few years now. If helping someone out gets me dead a little sooner, so be it. At least I'll die human."

Ziva's gut twisted. He seemed so sure—and so normal. Like the past two years hadn't happened. She couldn't understand it. He could still smile. She couldn't. And she couldn't tell if she was still human, and that scared her more than anything else.

She forced a smile, and lifted the pitted apple in mock of a silent toast. She hesitated only a moment more before sinking her teeth into the fruit. It almost crumbled under her tongue it was so old, and the meat was mealy and coarse—not at all what an apple should be. But she shoved it out of her mind. She'd had much worse, and it would give her strength.

She exchanged light words with Ethan as they ate, and he chuckled when her features screwed up in surprise when something soft and slimy gushed between her teeth. Recognizing the taste of maggot, she swallowed anyway. Protein was good.

"What happened?"

Ethan's query was nearly inaudible. Ziva looked up to find all trace of humor from his features—pure, driven focus was in its place. She recognized his need for information, his need to find some hope that a Rescue may come for them all.

"Did you escape? Or did someone help you?"

She hesitated, but realized there was no point in keeping it secret. The Bloods knew where Sanctuary was. And if Ethan knew she hadn't escaped on her own, he wouldn't try to do so himself. She didn't want him killed in a hopeless bid for freedom.

"My husband helped me escape."

Ethan's eyes widened. "Your husband? How'd he find you?"

Ziva blinked. She'd never thought to ask.

"And he had the ability to stitch you up all nice and neat? No infection?" He shook his head. "Not in this town. The Bloods must have all the medical supplies in the Tristate area."

She opened her mouth to counter him, but thought better of it a moment later. She couldn't explain why she was so reluctant to share word of the Sanctuary. It was more than keeping it safe—it was about keeping it close. Her memories would be her only solace in the weeks to come, she knew. Keeping them to herself…

It kept them all sacred.

"If you're here now… is your husband dead?" The question was gentle, but blunt. They both knew that the Bloods killed anyone they didn't Harvest.

But she knew she surprised him when she shook her head. "No. He's alive."

"He let them take you? After he risked life and limb getting you out of here?" The disbelief was clear in his tone.

"He has other priorities."

"A higher priority than his wife? Like what?"

She sighed. "Others rely on him. For Survival. He's a leader…"

Ethan eyed her for a long moment. "Is he military?" He winced. "_Was_." There was no military anymore. "Was he military?"

"What makes you ask that?" she countered smoothly.

He grinned again. "You didn't look twice at the fact that I was Army before the world went nuts. Makes me think you've had dealings with military men in the past."

"He's a Marine," she answered, unable to mirror his grin.

Ethan's eyebrows arched, and then his features settled into a cross between pity and hope. "Well, he won't be staying away for long. Even if you weren't his wife… Those guys are just about crazy enough to take on the whole damn city single-handed."

The thought made Ziva's gut twist painfully, and her features hardened. "Not even he is that stupid," she countered sharply.

Silence fell, and they stared at their hands. The air around them was thick and humid. By now, it was late afternoon, and the heat was nearly unbearable. She knew that come nightfall, the oppressive humidity wouldn't go anywhere. And with no windows, even the slight breeze afforded by the setting sun wouldn't be felt inside the prison. At least the stench had faded.

"It wouldn't be stupid if he had backup," Ethan murmured softly. Ziva looked at him, her eyes hooded with suspicion. She knew that tone—she'd spoken in that tone two years ago. He was talking about rebellion. "That place where you got medical care… got many people there?"

She hesitated only a moment. Then, she nodded.

"Anybody who would follow him into battle?"

Her breath caught in her chest. Fear gripped her, because she knew that no matter what she wished they'd do—stay home, stay safe, and stay alive—there was a little glimmer of hope that her instincts were right. They would follow him. But to do so would mean starting a war, a war they may not be able to win.

She nodded, answering his question— and bolstering his far-fetched hope—with one silent movement. But a moment later she was shaking her head no. "Not enough. Not enough to make a difference. They're not trained, they're not soldiers."

But Ethan scooted closer, his eyes lighting up. "They won't need training. The Bloods haven't encountered any real opposition in years. They're complacent. If the City is attacked by enough people, the Bloods may be so stunned we could have a fighting chance."

"There's not enough people—even if all of them came to fight. But there are families, children… The will to fight is there, but the need to protect their own families will be their priority."

"How many then? The healthy ones old enough and willing to fight?"

"Less than a hundred." Ethan's features fell, but a moment later, they brightened once more. "What?" she asked.

He grinned. "How many Survivors do you think are in the Herd?"

Her brow furrowed in confusion—and then she grinned, catching on to his line of thinking. "Upwards of three hundred."

Ethan leaned forward, his gaze intense even as his voice dropped even lower. "If we can get even half of them ready to fight when your people make their move—we could do this."

Ziva nodded. Already, his intensity was infectious, and it burn deep in her chest as her mind began to churn. First, they would have to recruit. It was unlikely that more than a few Survivors remained from the first few Harvests. That meant that they would have to start from scratch, and they had months of traumatic stress to work through. Right now, they were all opponents—they would have to break through that to find allies.

And they would have to be careful. A Survivor could sell them out in a heartbeat if it meant leniency in the Games, or even an extra ration.

It would be risky, and they had to move fast—because she knew Jethro would as well. And the more she thought about, the more confident she became that he _was_ on his way. As much as it terrified her, as much as she wished he'd just quit while he was ahead—it just wasn't in him to let her go so easily.

"If we do this," she breathed, her voice as whisper, "then you have to promise me that you will make sure you follow through. No matter what happens to me, you _have_ to make sure that the rebellion happens. If it doesn't…"

If it didn't, Jethro and whoever he brought with him would either die or join the Herd. And that was an outcome she would not consider.

Ethan nodded. "Absolutely." He extended his hand, open and honest. "Same goes for me."

With careful deliberation, Ziva reached out and firmly grasped Ethan's hand. She was all too aware that she was placing her trust in a man she barely knew. But she couldn't think of any reason why she shouldn't. Maybe it was the way he had so selflessly given her water, and food. Or maybe it was how he was looking at her—like she _wasn't_ sitting chained to a bunk like a mangy dog.

"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing."

Her voice was thin, speaking more to herself than to Ethan. For two years, all she had done was try to Survive. Sure, she tried to escape every now and then, when the rare opportunity arose. But she'd abandoned all thoughts of an uprising the moment she'd been passed over in the first Culling, the moment she became the only Surviving member of the Twelve.

That had been a mistake. She knew that now.

"Edmund Burke," Ethan observed. "One of my favorites. It's fitting."

She met his gaze, and settled back against the bunk behind her. The sense of responsibility settled over her shoulders in a familiar shroud. She accepted it, glad to be feeling anything other than _nothing_.

"It's time we did something," she said finally. "Because I'll be damned if I let evil triumph a second time."


	34. The Talk

_A/N: Next installment! Yay! Slowly but surely, we're getting there, aren't we? Now, the rest of this Author's Note is just filler so that the new string of social networking links off to the right here -... doesn't mess with the format of the actual chapter._

_Well, enjoy!_

* * *

Sanctuary was rapidly becoming unrecognizable.

Dozens of people milled through the main square of the town—not one was a face he recognized. They were all strangers, strangers who had come flocking to the Sanctuary's call for aid. It was more than he could have dreamed of, more people than he'd really believed had Survived. And now that they were all here, the Residents were faced with logistical issues they hadn't really anticipated.

The other Survivors had come more quickly than expected, and now the Sanctuary had to find a place to house them until the assault began, and enough food to feed them all. Jethro didn't want to think about it—all he wanted was to scoop Tali up and hold onto her as long as he could, until he had to say good bye to her. Until he left to Rescue her mother, for a second time.

His team, the Council, did their best to give him the time he desired, but he couldn't shirk his duties. This was his war, his crusade, and it would be his words that would rouse the troops to battle. He had to be visible, and he had to be there for the others to know he was real, that he was with them. They had to know him, and that meant he had to sacrifice some of the precious little time he had with his daughter.

McGee had found his calling, serving the receiving party for the incoming Survivors. He answered the initial barrage of questioning—were they really going to go against the Bloods, was the Voice really chasing his Shadow, would he leave the other Survivors alone if he succeeded or would his Residents become the next Black Blood Gang? Tim would tell the story again and again, spinning the tale to speak to the humanity within each of them, winning support for their cause.

But even so, not all who came stayed. Some only came to satisfy their curiosity, to see if the spreading rumors were true. Those Survivors left quickly—most who spent even a night in the Sanctuary ended up joining the Crusade, even those who were reluctant to risk their lives and that of their families. But enough time spent the safe, warm, civil atmosphere of the Sanctuary, and the most frequently asked question was whether, after the assault was finished, the newcomers would be welcome to remain at the Sanctuary.

The Council hesitated, looking to the Voice in silent question for the brief, tense moment it took him to nod his head.

"Yes," he told them simply. It might not be in the same place, it might not be with the same people. But any who stood with him in this would have safe refuge with the Residents who Survived the Crusade. No matter where they next went, to set up their new home, all would be welcome.

But whenever he could, he stole away, immersing himself in the shrinking quiet of the woods around the Sanctuary. In the distance, he could always hear the hustle and bustle of the Residents and other Survivors, some securing food and lodging, others running drills to instruct those unfamiliar with wielding weapons. Most had some rudimentary handle on the instincts needed to kill in defense—a necessary evil these days. But few were comfortable in taking the offensive, and most sought training. Sergei had willingly filled that role.

DiNozzo and Ruby had taken up the task of organizing the Survivors. They kept families together, what few there were, and as with all newcomers, the Survivors were briefed on the first and most important rule of the Sanctuary: No work, no food. Everyone pitched in, in any way they could. They reported for KP and other sundry chores, but the security of the Sanctuary remained in the hands of the Angels they all trusted.

Abby's role was simple, and unspoken. She cared for Tali, keeping track of her in the chaos that grew around them, chasing her through the legs of the unfamiliar crowd, and soothing her tears when the hubbub became too much. But there were some days that the child simply wouldn't be soothed until Gibbs came to see her himself. This was one such time, and like all the other times, he was grateful for the chance to spend a few minutes alone with her in the quiet refuge of the woods. But this time, the refuge wasn't so quiet.

But what set this instance apart was the way she refused to settle, even when Jethro had her bundled up in his arms. Abby had come to him, stressed to the point of tears, her hand tightly clasping Tali's even as the girl yanked and pulled incessantly against her grip. Bellowing at the top of her little lungs, Tali screamed to be let go, and Abby had tearfully relinquished possession of the unrecognizable little monster that was wearing the face of his daughter.

She continued to scream, and struggled against him with all the strength in her furious little body. She writhed and twisted, demanding to be let go, and Jethro felt the eyes of the other Residents follow them as he toted her off to the tree line. They were shocked at her behavior—so was he. She'd never thrown a tantrum before; the most he'd had to deal with was a vicious pout and the silent treatment, and even that only lasted until he looked her in the eye and spoke to her. This… this shrieking and sobbing was new to all of them.

Once they were out of sight from the rest of the Sanctuary, Jethro set himself down on the forest floor. The sharp cracking of his bones as he went down told him that he would be paying for it later, but he didn't care. He crossed his legs and gather Tali into his lap, wrapping his arms around her even as she tried to crawl out of reach. She squalled furiously, but he refused to give an inch. He held her, just tight enough that she couldn't wrest herself away from him.

After a few minutes, though they seemed long, it became evident that Tali was no more used to such behavior than he was. She wore herself out quickly, until before long she was sobbing, against his chest, exhausted. In the silence of the woods, the sound turned soft and plaintive, and soon, even that faded until he was sure she had fallen asleep. He didn't dare move to check and see if his intuition was right—the last thing either of them needed was for her to wake and start up all over again. In the quiet, he could almost relax… But relaxing meant his thoughts immediately drifted to Ziva, knowing that if she were there, Tali wouldn't have been crying.

"Daddy?"

The soft voice drifting up from his lap put the tension back in his chest. He took a deep breath, shoving the sobs that were on the verge of breaking loose back down, and wiped his eyes before looking between his arms at his little girl.

"Hey sweetheart," he said, his voice trembling despite his efforts to make it calm, and strong. Tali didn't need to see him like this. He could see she was tired, confused—she didn't understand any of what was happening, and he was grateful for that. He didn't want his little girl to know what was coming, and he didn't want her to remember that night in the courtyard as anything other than a nightmare.

But even if she didn't understand, she was still scared. Terrified.

"C'mere," he said, when she sniffled plaintively with tears glittering in her eyes.

She leaned into him, and he leaned down to press a kiss to her sweaty forehead. Her small hands clutched at his shirt, and he tightened his hold on her. Not to restrain her, this time, but to pull her closer. She settled more comfortably in his lap, and her arms circled his neck, clutching him with all the strength left in her. His shirt was quickly dampened by her tears, as she buried her face in his shoulder with a pitiful whimper.

He closed his eyes, and held her close, burying his nose in her tussled brown curls. For a brief moment, he could believe those curls were not hers, but Ziva's, though that wishful thinking ground to a vicious halt when he heard his daughter speak.

"I want mommy…"

_Oh, god._

The tears came back with full fire, and he sucked in a breath to keep them at bay. "Me too, princess," he told her.

"Where'd Mommy go?" she asked plaintively, wrenching at his heartstrings in that way only she could.

"She, uh… she had to go away for a while," he told her, skirting the horrible truth.

Tali sobbed against his shoulder. "Why? Did I do something wrong? Cause I'm sorry, I promise!"

"No, princess," he reassured her. "You didn't do anything."

"Then why did she have to go away? Why did she go with that bad man?"

_Bad man._ Understatement.

Gently, he disentabgled himself from her tiny little arms, and carefully smoothed her tangled curls from her worried forehead. "Natalia, sweetheart, I need you to listen to me right now," he told her firmly. She sniffled wetly, and he brushed a thumb over her damp cheeks. "You listening, princess?"

She nodded, her blue eyes wide.

"That bad man… he wanted to hurt a lot of people," he said.

"Did he want to hurt you, Daddy?"

He nodded. "Yes, sweetheart, he did. Me, you, all of us." Her bottom lip began to tremble again, and he questioned his decision to tell her this much. But she had to know. She had to know that her mother had not run from them. "Your mom went with that man so that he wouldn't hurt us. She did it to protect us."

"Because she's a hero, Daddy?" And just like that, her tears stopped, though they sparkled in her eyes. Her fingers dug tightly into the black shirt in her hands. "Is that why she had to go?"

"Yeah, baby girl. That's exactly why."

For a moment, she remained quiet. Then, finally, she leaned forward to hug him once more, and this time, he didn't hesitate. He pulled her closer, until she could rest her head on his chest. "Am I allowed to miss her?" she asked, her voice muffled by his chest. "Even though she's a hero?"

"You betcha," he said, trying not to let his own despair leech into his voice. The last thing he, or she, needed was for her to break into tears again. "She misses you right back, pumpkin."

"Promise?"

He nodded.

"Are you gonna bring her back?" she asked, her voice still small, nervous. The question took him by surprise, and when he hesitated in answering, she kept going. "You gotta bring her back, Daddy. I'll go with you. We can bring her home together—"

"No." His voice cut her rambling short, and she tensed at his tone. "I'm gonna bring her back, princess, but you can't come with me."

"Why not?"

"It's too dangerous. If you come with me, I'd be too worried about you to help mommy. Do you understand that?" She shrugged. "You're going to stay with Aunt Abby until I get back."

"Do I have to?" she mumbled miserably.

He almost smiled. "Yeah, you have to. She's gonna keep you safe 'til I get back, all right?"

"Buhwmfdngtbc?" she mumbled unintelligibly.

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"What if you don't come back?" she repeated, this time looking up at him. "What if you get caught by the bad man too? Then I'll be all alone… I don't want you to go!"

Tiny arms flung around him again, and her feet moved to clutch at his sides—clinging to him, like a monkey. But a touch of his hand made her relax once more, and she looked up at him with more maturity in her eyes than he'd ever wanted her to have so soon.

"Tali," he started, his voice low and serious, "I'm not going to lie to you, sweetheart. Bringing Mommy back is going to be dangerous. A lot of people might get hurt—"

"Won't you get hurt?" she cut in, her eyes wide with horror.

"_But," _he continued meaningfully, "I'm going to be bringing a lot of friends with me to help."

"All the strangers?"

"That's right, baby. The strangers are going to help me save your mom."

"Then you'll be okay… you and mommy?"

Jethro hesitated. Ziva would have read through the silence like the agent she was, but Tali was still blessedly innocent. She sat patiently, expecting him to assure her that he would return without a doubt. The only trouble was—there was doubt. There was doubt and uncertainty and the very real possibility that either him or Ziva, or even both of them would fall before they saw their little girl again.

"Tali…" His voice was soft, but she heard his tone, and instinctively she knew what it meant. Her features fell, almost crumbling back into tears. "Baby… the last thing me or your mom want to do is leave you. We will always fight to come back, so we can be a family. But—"

"It's dangerous," she filled in, her voice dull. He wondered exactly what she thought the word meant. Did she realize it meant they could both die? He decided to not find out either way.

He nodded instead.

"Yeah." She looked up at him, and still, he wondered. "But what's even more important to us is that you stay safe, Tali."

"Why?"

A rippled of shock ran through him at her question. "Because we love you, very very much."

"Then I should go with you," she countered. "I love you and mommy. I want you to stay safe too! Auntie Abby says you're extra careful when you're with me—being careful means you'll be safe!"

A small, wry smile curled his lips. The simple, innocent logic almost made him want to laugh, and not just with amusement, but from relief as well. Because maybe, just maybe, her childhood innocence hadn't been lost just yet.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he said finally. "But it doesn't work like that…"

"Why not?"

Jethro paused then. He needed her to see, but he didn't want to scare her.

"Tali… do you want to know why your mom and I want you to stay with Auntie Abby?" Her small brown head nodded enthusiastically, bobbing up and down frenetically. "It's because, if your mom and I… if we don't come back—"

"But you will! You promised!"

He pressed on, refusing to let the girl's growing panic distract him from what he needs to say. "If we don't come back, it'll be okay."

"No it won't!"

"Yes, it will," he countered. "Because you'll be here, Talia. You'll be safe with Auntie Abby, and so long as you are, your mom and I will never leave you."

A furrow crinkled her small brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I'll always be with you sweetheart. Your mom too. Here," he tapped lightly on her forehead. "And here." He pressed his palm to her chest, right over her heart. Wide blue eyes stared up at him, soaking in his every word, though comprehension had yet to dawn.

"Because as long as you remember us, as long as you remember how much we love you, you will always have us inside you."

For a long moment, nothing more was said. Tali stared, and Jethro looked back, assuring her that he meant every word. High above them, the sound of rain beginning to fall could be heard, a soft pitter patter muffled by the dense foliage. It would be a while before the elements reached them, he knew, and that only if it fell hard enough.

Gently, he reached out, and cupped Tali's soft cheek in his palm. His thumb brushed her tears from her baby-soft skin, and she wiggled closer. "I'll always love, Tali," he said softly. "Always."

Her shoulders hitched as her breath caught in a sob, but this time it was soundless, almost like a hiccup. Her arms reached around him, and her breath whispered across his neck.

"Love you too," she murmured.

His arms enveloped her again, and together they sat in the shelter of the woods, as the heavens cried for them.


	35. The Vow

The recruiting, it turned out, fell mostly to Ethan.

Since their whispered pact that day in the cell, their movement and interaction with the rest of the Herd was restricted to those in their cell and anyone Ethan could come into contact with in the Games. There was more opportunity than either of them had anticipated—with nearly a week's worth of Games to celebrate the hunting party's return, Ethan had ample time to get the word out, subtly.

Ziva had pointed out that the Games were the only way Werth would be able to sate the Bloods' thwarted bloodlust, after the massacre they'd expected had been denied them. She didn't give him much more detail than that, but when he'd seen the Bloods actually participating in the games as well, his doubts vanished. Nearly two dozen Survivors were slaughtered in the arena, but Ethan managed to get away with nothing more serious than a fractured cheekbone and a dislocated shoulder.

In the process, he'd whispered to every Survivor he could get within hearing distance of. Words of rebellion, of Rescue, bolstered both their hope and their dwindling desire to live. The Bloods in Games had been surprised at the unexpected surge in aggression from their prey, and those in the stands had roared in satisfaction at the desperate struggle that played out below them.

At first, Ethan had worried that the Bloods would get wise, grow suspicious of the renewed vigor of the Herd, but in the end, he needn't have. Only he, and the other Survivors, knew the truth—it was merely a prelude to the violence to come. It was not just a fight to Survive this time… It was a fight for freedom.

And it was the right thing to do, to tell the other Survivors of the coming Rescue. For the two dozen that fell, nearly a hundred more returned to their Pens with fire in their eyes, nodding to him that they too would spread the word, and that they would be ready.

Ziva was kept in the Pens during the Games. At least, that's what Ethan had thought, though she was gone by the time he was finally locked in with the others after the fights had concluded for good. When the day's food came, he pocketed a hunk of moldy bread for her. But it was another day and a half before she was dragged back in.

Ethan kept his eyes lowered, keeping in mind that she wasn't supposed to be making friends in the Pens. Neither of them needed to draw further attention on them. But he could not ignore the sharp gasps of air he heard as they chained her once more to the bunk, nor the small grunts of pain that issued from the corner when the Bloods swept back out of the cell.

He waited less than a heartbeat after they slammed the door closed before he looked up, instinctively moving to aid his newest friend.

They'd given her more slack this time, enough chain to let her kneel, propping herself up on her hands in the corner as her stomach heaved. He was glad that he'd saved her some food, because he knew from the brackish bile that spilled to the cement floor that they hadn't fed her in the time she'd been away. He averted his eyes when he saw the lattice of milky-white strands that laced the mess on the floor; he didn't want to dwell on what it meant, on what had been done.

He gently lifted her hair out of the way, but when she flinched so hard she moaned in pain, he pulled away. Instead he waited, until her spasms faded, leaving her exhausted. She nearly collapsed in her own sick, but Ethan was quick enough to catch her, and pull her away. The man in him wanted to cradle her in his arms, to offer her whatever comfort he could.

But the soldier in him knew better. She wouldn't appreciate such empathy.

When she pulled away, curling up as much as she could manage, he let her go. He suspected she would have turned her back to him, if she could, but the tether was barely long enough for her to lie down at all.

Ethan glared at the Pen's other occupants, who were staring at them both with a mixture of resentment and curiosity. Only a few of them had the decency to look away.

His attention was pulled back to his friend when he heard a ragged sob escape her lips. Before her scarred hand came up to hide her face, he caught a glimpse of a blackened eye, a freshly bloodied nose, and a lip split all the way down to the chin. The hand that didn't cover her face braced her ribs, and he figured that a few of them might've been broken too.

He crept as close as he dared, but his voice remained deep in his chest. He'd never been glib, and physicality was easier for him to communicate. But he wasn't an idiot either. Being touched was probably the last thing she wanted.

"We're going to kill him," he told her softly, just loud enough for her to hear. "You just have to hang in there a little longer. Just until your people come for you. The others will be ready." She didn't respond. He didn't expect her to.

"When the time comes, we'll kill them all."

The hand over her face curled into a fist, which came to a rest against the floor with solid, deliberate care. An angry tear trailed over the swollen bridge of her nose, and her voice, while shaky, was hard with hate.

"_No_."

Ethan blinked, surprised by her answer. "No?"

"No," came the affirmation, dark and vicious. "Not _we_." Her eyes glittered up at him, though from anger or tears, he couldn't say. "_I_ will kill him. When the time comes, Damon Werth is mine."

Ethan nodded readily. "Okay," he whispered back.

Reaching out, he covered her hand with his. His palm nearly swallowed her small fist, and her skin was like ice. But to his surprise, her fingers unclenched. Her hand tilted, and their palms clasped in a warrior's embrace.

For a long moment, silence reigned, but the tension was just too heavy for Ethan. He had to do something. Remembering the bread he'd pocketed, he offered it to her with his free hand.

When her eyes focused on it, she gave a miserable, mumbling groan and she pushed the offending food away with a nauseated roll of her eyes. If he wasn't mistaken, her bruised features may have even turned a little green at the sight of it.

It shouldn't have been funny. It really wasn't.

But her reaction was just so mundane— so classic it was out of place— that an unbidden laugh bubbled up in his throat. He pressed his lips together, refusing to let it out, but then he saw her eyes glaring up at him, and he knew she knew.

It was too much.

A strangled cough tore from his throat, sounding less like a laugh than a choke. But to his surprise, instead of scolding him, she began to laugh too.

Her whispery laugh quickly turned into a moan of pain, but it was enough. The tension was broken, and the levity of the sound seemed to reaffirm their goal.

As though the mirth they shared was proof that the end of their nightmare was close at hand.

Belatedly, he wondered if they'll still be laughing when the killing began. If they were, would they be the monsters? Or would it be expected of them, Surviving through what they had?

Most importantly, would they still be able to laugh, when all was said and done?

He supposed they would find out one way or the other. Soon, they would all know.

One way, or the other.

* * *

_A/N: Another chapter down! I know, too long in coming. But it's coming! I promise!_


	36. The Tide

_A/N: Ugh, I know! It's been forever. I had this huge chapter in the works for over a month, but it just will not cooperate, so I had to scrap it. This is a short little thing that will move things along and substitute for the added layer of WEIRD that just refused to be written properly. You have no idea how frustrated I am at the whole thing ;)  
_

_Anywho, thank you thank you thank you for being patient and for sticking with me. I apologize for not being able to respond to everyone's reviews, but I do appreciate each and every one of them._

_As always, enjoy!  
_

* * *

Gibbs lifted his fist, effectively drawing his patrol to a halt.

Everyone was on edge—being the advance scout for the rest of the ragtag war party meant they were isolated in unfamiliar territory. This part of the mountains had been too far from their Sanctuary to give much time to explore it, and they were all acutely aware of what could be lurking behind every boulder, every shadowed tree.

But their resolve never wavered, nor did that of the Residents coming behind. That the danger was braved for the sake of one of their own only bolstered their courage.

Fornell carefully moved to Gibbs' position, keeping low to avoid whatever the Marine had sensed. "What is it?" came the hushed query. The urgency in his voice was tangible—they should keep moving.

"I think I know where we are."

Fornell snorted. "We're ass-deep in the Appalachians, on our way to fight a City full of cutthroats. Coulda told you that hours ago."

Gibbs didn't answer.

"You didn't get us lost, did you?"

This time, Fornell got a headshake no. "That busted tree trunk."

Gibbs pointed. Fornell saw nothing more than a mangled dead thing that looked like it hadn't been touched in years. Ivy covered more than half of it, and poison sumac covered the rest of it.

"I've been here before," Gibbs stated, settling back on his heels.

"So what?" Fornell countered. "We're not exactly here for the scenic route down memory lane, you know."

"There's a weapons cache here."

Fornell blinked. "What?"

"I trained here almost a dozen years ago. This whole place used to be joint property for the National Guard and Corps. There's a small compound three miles northwest of the tree. Compound had an armory."

"And you think no one will have cleaned it out by now? You know the Guard mobilized during the Incident. They would've taken the weapons with them."

But Gibbs shook his head again. "This was 4th Battalion. Reservist. Most Reserve units didn't have time to mobilize. And this wasn't a primary site. Odds are, they forgot about it when the Incident hit."

Fornell wasn't one to buy into bunk theories. And this definitely qualified as a stretch, if not outright ridiculous. But there was something in Gibbs voice, in his eyes, that made Tobias pause. Three miles wouldn't put them too far off route, and, really, it wouldn't hurt to at least check it out.

"If the outpost is still standing, and the guns are still there," he posed guardedly, meeting Gibbs' steadfast gaze, "you gonna be able to get into the armory?"

Because the military wasn't known for leaving their weapons unsecured. Even Tobias knew that.

But Gibbs' mouth curled into a mirthless smile. "Oh, yeah…"

His tone was low and lingering, and Fornell heard the unspoken 'you bet your ass' his friend let slip into his voice.

In the end, all Fornell could do was nod. Five minutes later, they'd sent one of the Angels back to relay the change in plan to the rest of the war party, and had stepped out in the direction of the outpost. Tobias didn't bother wondering if it was the right thing to do, or if Gibbs would be able to live up to his end of the plan.

Tobias knew better by now. If anyone in the world could do it, it would be Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

"Holy shit."

Yeah. Exactly.

"Who the hell would leave a .50 cal here?"

Fornell didn't really care who did. Though if he knew, he might've thanked them. Because along with a .50 caliber rifle—complete with a turret mount—they now had a plethora of SAWs, M16s, M9s, and a crateful of standard issue combat knives to add to their arsenal of hatchets and pitchforks. There were even a handful of AT4 rocket launchers and grenades.

He shot a look towards Gibbs, who was scanning through the inventory lists to see if there was anything they might've missed. If he didn't know any better, he'd have sworn the bastard looked smug. For a brief moment, it was almost like looking at Special Agent Gibbs again, even with the grizzled jaw and increasingly whitened hairline.

"We're gonna need more people to carry all this back to the rendezvous point," Tobias pointed out.

Gibbs shrugged. "There's a couple of humvees out back," he delivered nonchalantly. "Use those."

Damn. As if the man needed any more reason to smirk.

But then his old friend looked up from his inventories and met his gaze, and for a long moment nothing was said. And in that moment, a weight lifted from them. This changed everything.

This meant that instead of potentially leading over a hundred Residents to their deaths, they could be marching towards a potential victory. It was a subtle difference, but it was a difference that gave them a fighting chance.

Fornell grinned, for the first time in months.

"Let's go to war."


	37. The Hope

_A/N: Ah, yeah! I'm on a roll! Enjoy it while it lasts, people! Yes, I know this one is short again, but I'm thinking the next one will end up being longer. Never you fear. You'll see, when you read this one :)_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Ziva looked to Ethan, swallowing her apprehension.

She was standing under her own power, though her steps were stilted and limping. She'd been dragged from the cell she shared with Ethan and the others only twice, and the relative inactivity had given her ankles the time to heal just enough. But even so, she wouldn't last long in a Game.

She knew that, and looking at Ethan, she knew that he knew it too. The concern in his eyes was heartbreakingly tender, but she feared for him. If he was preoccupied about her safety, that meant he was not focusing on keeping himself alive. And she didn't know how well she'd be able to watch his back for him.

And she would have to, if the mass exodus of the Herd towards the Stadium was any indication. This would be the Game to end all Games, to get the Bloods ramped up and thirsting for War. When Worth had first told her his intent to wage war, her heart had nearly stopped beating. But a moment later it had become clear he'd forgotten Jethro and his Sanctuary.

Worth's search for her into the northern ganglands had sparked a turf battle that was coming to a head. In a matter of days, the Bloods would march North, and leave nothing behind. He'd punished her that day, for her role in sparking the battle, but he hadn't finished with her yet.

She would fight for her life along with all the others, and _if_ she survived—a very thin _if_—then he would drag her North along with whatever other Survivors the Bloods felt like playing with along the way.

That was the reason she was hobbling along, subtly aided by Ethan, moving along with the rest of the Herd. Her shoulders bumped against those of countless others, and the eyes she met were wide with fear and uncertainty. But their brows raised in silent question, reminding her that Ethan had done as he'd promised.

He'd gotten the word out, and they wanted to know if this was it. They wanted to know if they were going to fight—not in the Games, but for their freedom. And she was faced with a choice that was no choice at all.

She didn't want to be the one to give the signal to spark the rebellion, not when there was no sign of Jethro. But there was no choice but to fight. Even if it meant their deaths, it was becoming increasingly clear that they would all rather fight for the taste of freedom Ziva had brought back with her.

They would rather die for that tantalizing scent of life beyond the City, than for the sport of their captors. And Ziva could not deny them that right.

So she nodded minutely towards each gaze she met, unable to hide the stiff reluctance of the motion. She was far from reassuring, and she berated herself for failing to emulate the leader she'd found in Jethro. He had taught her better than this, she knew, but this was the first time she felt physically incapable of carrying the burden of leadership. Her ankles hurt, her head throbbed still from her broken nose, and her heart ached.

She was so deep in thought that she almost missed the flashing glint of light blinking at her from a nearby alleyway across the street.

It could have been the sun off a broken bottle or windowpane, and as such she almost dismissed it. But as she passed her eyes caught the lurking shadow of a hidden form. For a long moment, her mind zeroed in on why a Blood would want to hide in an alley so close to the Pens. But then she blinked, and her thoughts caught up to her.

A Blood _wouldn't_ be hiding in an alleyway.

The realization hit her like a ton of bricks, and in an instant the weight lifted from her shoulders. She wasn't alone—she and Ethan weren't alone. Just maybe their fight would result in something other than certain death. Maybe they would survive one last time.

Because even if she didn't know whether the shadow was actually Jethro, he _was_ somewhere in the City. She could feel it.

Looking back to the alley one last time, she delivered a solemn nod. Whether the shadow saw it, or knew what it meant, she didn't know. She didn't care. The hope was there, and it bolstered her where her physical strength could not.

Ethan sensed the change in her, and he glanced at her in question as they continued to move closer towards the looming Stadium, and whatever fate it for them within.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice low.

She offered him a smile, and it was immediately spied by the Survivors closest to them. Heads bowed together, whispering murmured words of motivation that spread outward like wildfire.

_Good_, she thought. Let it.

She met Ethan's curious gaze squarely.

"This is going to be one hell of a show."


	38. The Fight

_A/N: I know. It's been way too long. There's a long story behind the wait (well, several actually, but oh well...) but we'll ignore them for now in favor of this one. And for those of you who have seen the Hunger Games recently, you may see parallels, but just remember that this fic was started years before the film was released, and by 2009 I hadn't read the books yet. :) _

_Many thanks to ChEmMiE and ZivaFan2481 for continuing to poke me and keep me writing._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

The field was silent, but one wouldn't know it from the thunderous cheers from the stands. The stadium shook from it, and Ziva could feel the sound in her bones. She looked to Ethan, who leveled a somber gaze at her in return. He felt it too—the deafening roar wasn't new to either of them. But on this night, it weighed more heavily. The very air was thick with uncertainty and fear. Most of the Herd knew something was different by now. Tonight was the night they all died. Or it would be the night they all lived.

Somewhere over her left shoulder Ziva could hear the squawking of a speaker—Damon had begun his duties as master of ceremonies, but she couldn't make out a single word over the din. It didn't matter. The next moment a cadre of Bloods was forming the Survivors who would fight in the first bout.

Twenty Survivors were shoved onto the field, while the rest were funneled into the chain link enclosure that served as the waiting area. Ziva watched them padlock the fence closed, and resisted the hands shoving her to the field until the Blood with the key saw her. All it took was one challenging lift of her eyebrow before he took the bait.

He rounded on her with a right hook to the jaw. She managed to tilt her head just enough for it to mostly glance off, but wasn't quick enough to avoid the boot that connected with her leg just above the knee. She went down hard, but used the motion to fall against the Blood in question.

He was so bent on teaching her a lesson that he didn't feel her lift the key from the clip on his belt. But someone else saw.

As blows rained down on her from above, she stretched her arms towards the cage as far as she dared. But then fingers touched hers, and she relinquished her prize with a triumphant upturn of her lips, a smile she hid a moment later as Ethan came to her rescue.

"Wait, wait wait!" he cried, bending over her. "Stop! She tripped!" He placed himself between her and the Blood, a human shield. "You think your boss would like it if you killed her before he got to watch her fight?"

That made the Blood pause. His eyes hardened, wide enough to belie his sudden fear, then snarled. "Get her onto the field," he growled.

Ethan obeyed without hesitation. He helped her up, and when they made eye contact, his brow lifted in question. He'd deduced her plan for what it was, but hadn't seen if she'd been successful. She nodded, presumably in thanks, and a gleam sparked in his eye. But he kept his thoughts to himself until they were with the other Survivors on the field.

As always, weapons—rusty and battered, smeared with blood—were dotted around the field, but he ignored them. "They know to wait? Your people?"

"I don't know. Maybe. We may have to take our cue from them..."

She didn't even know if Jethro had reached the Stadium. He could be lying in wait already, or he could be blocks away still, unable to reach them. They would have to assume they were fending for themselves.

"This is it, isn't it?" Ethan's voice cut through her somber thoughts, and she looked up at him to find him gazing around the Stadium almost wistfully. She let her gaze wander as well, but looked for her Residents, not nostalgia. In the end, she nodded with a sigh. "Yes. It is."

This would be the moment they decided their fate. They'd Survive, or they wouldn't. Do or die.

"Then if we're going to die here in the next few minutes," he continued, "there's something I gotta tell you."

Ziva looked up at him again, but he didn't meet her gaze. He continued to stare stoically straight ahead. "Yes?"

He took a deep, solemn breath, steadying himself.

"The two black eyes you got with your broken nose make you look like a raccoon."

Ziva blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I wasn't going to say anything, because it wasn't really fair to you. I mean, you didn't _ask_ to look like a cute little raccoon."

"_Cute?_"

"But I didn't want to die before telling you that only the overwhelming certainty of death in our futures has kept me from busting a gut when you look up at me from under your hair like that."

Ziva brushed the hair from her eyes with an indignant swipe. But she was grinning. Ethan even chuckled when she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Tell you what," she said drolly, allowing her smirk to linger. "We Survive this, you can laugh at me all you want. You won't be the only one, I'm sure."

"Oh?"

"I have a friend named Tony. You'll like him."

"Can't wait to meet him."

This last was delivered with an air of finality. They both knew that the chances of getting that far were slim to none. His hand gripped hers in silent reassurance. She squeezed it lightly.

"Let's do this," he said.

They locked gazes for a long moment, until the Stadium fell still. The Survivors instinctively drifted apart on the field, giving themselves distance to work with in the key starting moments of the Game. Together they waited for the rules of their Game.

"This is a Death Game," Damon's voice boomed throughout the Stadium, familiar and sickening. Ziva's stomach turned, but she refused to let it show. "Fight to the death. The Victor will be exempt from Round 2."

They wouldn't know what Round 2 would bring until it was upon them. Before anyone could waste time wondering, a buzzer sounded loudly across the loud system.

"BEGIN!"

Survivors surged into motion as though fired from a cannon. Ethan dove for the nearest weapon, and Ziva struggled to keep her feet as her source of stability tore away from her. But a moment later he was back, a length of 2x4 in his hands. With a stomp of his foot it was snapped into two, and one piece found its way into her hand just as a shout of frenzy alerted her to the attack from behind. She dodged the blow, and her eyes found those of her attacker, hazy and bloodshot with exhaustion while rabid with fear.

"Stop!" she shouted. The man swung again, and she blocked it. "You don't have to do this. We don't have to fight anymore—!"

Her voice shut down when a fist found her gut. He wouldn't listen. He didn't want to die here, and somewhere in her heart Ziva regretted that it would be the only way this could end. But it was drowned out by a roaring in her ears as she sank the splintered point of her weapon into his gut. She wasn't dying here either.

And beyond him there was another, and another both equally deaf to her punctuated pleas for peace. She limpingly maneuvered herself around each fresh corpse, but never lost sight of Ethan, who dutifully remained close to her. She heard his own overtures, but no one listened to him any better. Soon enough, it was just the two of them among a sea of dead.

"They're not listening," he told her breathlessly, his shoulder brushing hers. His hand rested on her arm, offering her a moment of steadiness on her shaky legs. She took it, and nodded.

"I know. But they are are."

She nodded towards the waiting Herd, whose eyes were all glued on them. Some were clearly confused, having never once seen tactics like theirs. Teamwork was rare, and for the stronger fighters to be pleading for peace... it was unheard of. But some eyes were bright with hope, grins of excitement curling the corners of dozens of mouths.

It came as a flood of icy realization to discover that their ragged Herd was a better army than either of them could have hoped for. In being forced to fight for their lives, these Survivors had learned hard and fast how to kill... and it was hard-knock training that was going to take the Bloods by surprise. They wouldn't know what hit them. Because once the Herd was released, they would fight not only for their lives, for their freedom, but for retribution as well.

For all the pain, and every lost shred of humanity, the Herd was going to take it back in blood.

Ethan glanced over his shoulder, and paused just long enough for Ziva to know he was surprised by what he saw. But when he turned back, he nudged her with an ounce of humor—and ounce that was far out of place amidst the bodies around them. But she found herself smiling in spite of herself.

"We have to time this right," he said. Ziva could feel his eyes scanning, waiting for the next threat to come screaming towards them. But for now, they were left alone, as their would-be attackers focused their efforts on lesser fighters.

Their respite wouldn't last long though, and Ziva's thoughts were already racing. She could see the end of the fight—Damon's refusal to allow more than one victor. She and Ethan would have to fight each other, even if all the others fell. Only one winner. Only one Survivor would be allowed to leave the field.

"Here we go," Ethan's voice rumbled in her ear. He looked towards the rear, and Ziva almost looked as well before a flash of movement from ahead caught her attention. "I have three on your six," he reported calmly.

"And two on yours," she returned, eyeing the approaching survivors with a steady regard. They were approaching slowly, with purpose. They didn't seem to be working in tandem, as she and Ethan were, but she knew better than to assume. Such an assumption could kill them both.

Ethan shifted readily beside her as his three spread out around them, encircling them both. They were trapped within the five, and Ziva searched for obvious signs of injury, hoping to find an easy target. But none of the scrapes and lacerations seemed critical. It would be rough, but she would not give up now. Not when she was so close.

"You can get us out of here?"

The question slipped past the lips of the Survivor at Ziva's two-o'clock, his glittering eyes dark with an expression she couldn't read. Suspicion, perhaps—there was definitely reluctance in his posture, one that refused to let him hope.

She met his gaze for a long moment before answering, surveying him as she caught her breath. Finally, she nodded. "Or die trying."

"And we'll get to take out the Bloods?"

This question came from someone behind her, someone she couldn't see. Ethan fielded it. "As many as you can get your hands on. Kill them all, and then we're free."

The Survivors around them shared long, questioning looks, as though unwilling to commit until another did. It was the first Survivor who'd spoken who took the first plunge. "I'm in."

Following his lead, the others nodded, though none of them lowered their weapons. Their words had not traveled up the bleachers, or even to the rest of the Herd, but even so, their standoff had lasted too long. The Bloods in the stands roared with impatience, and somewhere far above them Damon's voice issued through the loudspeakers.

"FIGHT!" the tinny voice roared, furious and complacent all at once. But not one of the Survivors moved. They still eyed each other, as though judging each other. Ziva didn't dare hope that they all shared the same principles.

But it was time. This was the moment she'd been waiting for. Do or die.

Slowly, she lowered her weapon with deliberate intent. She straightened, presenting her adversaries with a target they could not miss and lowering her ever present guard. The Survivor directly across from her blinked in surprise, his shock evident. Never, in the history of the Games, had she ever dropped her defenses. Never had she ever stopped fighting.

And suddenly, every eye in the Stadium was on her. The Survivors surrounding them, the Herd still corralled at the sidelines, and each and every Blood slavering in the stands. They watched with hunger and interest, waiting with bated breath for the kill sure to come.

But then, with equal care, the man in front of her rose as well. The point of his pike lowered, almost a half-flag salute. His dark eyes regarded her for a long moment, and when he opened his mouth to speak, his accented voice told Ziva that he was foreign.

"I shall die as a man," he declared, nodding to her. "Not an animal."

One by one, the others stood from their crouches, relaxing their postures as best they could. They were still tense, still all too aware of the killing ground they stood on. But the wordless affirmation was loud and clear. They were ready to be free.

"Fight, dammit!" Damon shouted, his complacency faltering. "Fight, or you will all die!"

Ziva turned, her eyes scanning the stands for his macabre throne. It didn't take long. She met his gaze across the distance, reveling in the fury she found there. Already, she had found victory. A small one, for there was no guarantee any of them would leave the field alive, but nevertheless, she had stopped a Game in its tracks.

Damon's eyes burned, hateful and incendiary. No doubt he saw her triumph, and recognized his loss for what it was. His features screwed up into a scowl, but then his focus strayed to the Bloods clamoring for the kill. Ziva came to the same realization at the same time he did, and read his own triumph as he had hers.

"KILL THEM ALL!"

It was all the cue the Bloods needed. They spilled onto the field, dropping over the railings and sprinting onto the pitch with murder in their sights. But the order was answered in kind by Survivors as well. The fighters surrounding her and Ethan darted into action, spreading out and readying their weapons for a brief moment before launching themselves at the first of the approaching threats.

"Now!" Ziva called, but the Herd was already in motion. The key Ziva had slipped them had been put to use already, and the gate locking them in exploded outward in a flood of bodies, all eager to join the final Game.

They overwhelmed the nearest guards before the Bloods could react, wresting the weapons from their persons before those further back fell on them with vicious brutality. Dozens stomped on the fallen men, kicking and tearing as they passed, drowning each man in a flurry of blows. Ziva didn't watch long enough to see whether or not they were left alive.

In moments the field was swarming with warring bodies; this time, the Bloods were just as terrified as any member of the Herd forced to fight in the Games. Ziva engaged several, but never long enough to land a killing blow herself. Too often her adversary was sucked into another battle, pulled away by hard, bony hands that robbed him of weapons that were soon turned on him. She was not being guarded, no... she was simply forgotten in the frenzy, with only Ethan's solid presence for support.

But even as she watched, the Survivors on the field were being overrun. There were many of them, but more Bloods kept coming, spilling onto the field and surging down the stands. Over a hundred still had yet to touch the grass, and Survivors fell under the onslaught they couldn't hope to stave off on their own.

Ziva suddenly pitched to the right, countering a strike from a knife-wielding Blood that would have gored Ethan through the ribs. She stumbled, and though her 2x4 found a target in his gut, she couldn't recover in time to face the battle cry of another Blood coming at her from behind. Her head turned to see the man barreling towards her, but her weapon remained firmly planted in her previous victim. She was defenseless.

Just as she felt the calm of certain death creep over her, she heard the crack of a gunshot cut through the din of the massacre, and the charging Blood dropped in a burst of red mist. Stunned shock gripped her for but a moment, before she recognized the sound and pinpoint precision of the bullet wound that was stamped into the man's brow. The Bloods had guns, and Damon had used them to massacre a Game before, but this... somehow, she knew who had fired this shot.

As if they heard her thoughts, a cacophony of sound exploded across the arena. But it was not the Survivors who screamed. It was the Bloods. They howled, in pain, rage, and disbelief, as more than a dozen of their number fell in the first volley. Ziva scanned the stands, and a moment later she saw the flash of gunfire, sending another slew of bullets into the midst of the attacking Bloods.

Many were hit from behind, and they fell like ragdolls, crumpling to join those already dead and broken on the green. When not a single member of the Herd was hit, Ziva knew that it was the Angels on the other end of those rifles, and her suspicions were confirmed when she saw other Survivors joining the fight. These were not members of the Herd. No, these were strong and well-fed, and they were armed to the teeth. Handguns and blades flashed in their hands, and even those wielding chains and pipes were intimidating enough to make the Bloods give pause.

Ziva could see the shock in their dark eyes, the hesitation in their tattooed limbs, and knew exactly where it came from. In all their battles, in all their fights for turf and resources—even for pride alone—they had never been faced with an opponent such as this. Never had the Bloods faced an enemy so determined, never so cohesive in their attack. And for the first time since the Incident, the Bloods were the ones running. For the first time, _they_ were the ones fighting for their lives.

But those Bloods already in the thick of the massacre were far from cowed. Ziva whirled stiltedly as the roar of another Blood sounded from her three o'clock. She bent to pull a pipe from the previous, now dead Blood's fingers, and brought it to bear just as another gunshot sounded. The Blood dropped feet from his comrade, his face a mask of crimson rage.

She had a Guardian Angel, it seemed. No doubt on Jethro's orders, if not Jethro himself. But she couldn't afford to let her guard down. She turned to join Ethan, and took the opportunity to slam her newly acquired weapon into the kidney of his current opponent. The Blood dropped, and Ethan—now armed with a re-appropriated knife—finished him with a vicious slice to the neck, severing his jugular and carotid both. Blood erupted from the wound in a wide arcing spray, dousing both of them before they moved on.

"We need to get you out of here!" Ethan shouted. Ziva nodded, putting aside her knee-jerk reaction to protest. She was a warrior, yes, and this was her fight. But she was injured, and a liability. Her ankles were likely to give way at any moment, and thus far her feet had remained planted—not preferable in a battle where speed and strength decided the outcome. With the new Survivors—and the Residents she recognized among them—still flooding in from beneath the bleachers, her presence was no longer a lynchpin. There were plenty to fight the Bloods now. If they could reach the bleachers, they would find shelter. She would find Jethro.

"The bleachers!" she acknowledged. He nodded, but before they could move the world exploded into chaos around them. Ethan turned to engage a Blood coming at them from his right, and two more charged from his six- her eleven o'clock. They both fell in a shower of coppery clouds as her Guardian brought them down. But then arms swallowed her, trapping her arms to her sides from behind and pulling her away from Ethan.

She saw the tattooed arms that gripped her, already spattered with fresh blood, and knew them with a deadly certainty that made her blood run cold. _Damon._

"Ethan!" Her cry passed her lips before she could think not to, her fear instinctive and desperate as her efforts to free herself went unnoticed. Damon only hoisted her up further against him, dragging her away with such hurry that she knew, without a doubt, that he had one purpose on his mind.

But her concern for herself halted in its tracks when her shout pulled Ethan's attention away from his own battle. It was only for a moment, but it was one instant that pulled his eyes from his opponent, his focus shattered for the one second the Blood needed.

The knife in Ethan's hand was knocked away, his guard batted aside as the head of a hatchet buried itself between his ribs.

"ETHAN!"


	39. The Victory

_A/N: Let's face it. I'm awesome. Hee hee! :D Many thanks to people still reviewing! I'm so glad you guys are still willing to read this!  
_

_Enjoy!  
_

* * *

Gibbs was part of the ground assault. He knew an Angel was protecting Ziva, on his orders, but he knew that one sniper could only do so much in the chaos of a battle like this. Through the surging, tumultuous crowd he saw Ziva's struggle to fend off her attackers, spied the shadow creeping up to swallow her from behind. In that moment, all else ceased to exist. His sole focus, his only objective, was to get to her.

He'd long since traded his primitive polearm for the familiar handgrip of a 9mm Berretta, and with it he had cut a swath across the field, smoothly dropping any Blood who got in his way as he fought to reach Ziva. First three, then nine. He emptied one clip and reloaded a fresh one, the motions so ingrained that it remained second-nature, even after all this time.

But he wasn't quick enough. Werth got to her first, and was dragging her off to god knew where to do god knew what. In his periphery he could see the other Survivors struggling against the Bloods, Herd and Residents alike falling under the gang's growing rage. The element surprise was fading and the Bloods' confidence was returning. The result was unbridled violence and the instilled sense of superiority that made all others bugs beneath their shoes. But Gibbs had accounted for that.

In three minutes—a little less now—one last contingent of Survivors were going to flood the field, flanking the original point of advance. This contingent was led by Sergei and his best, each with orders to lay waste to every single Blood who raised a weapon against them. There would be no mercy, no benevolence. The final blow would cripple the Bloods, giving the victory to the Herd and their unexpected reinforcements.

But that meant he had three minutes to get to Ziva. Three minutes to eliminate Werth. Because as soon as Damon realized he would not win, he would make sure Gibbs didn't win either. He would murder Ziva, out of spite if nothing else.

Three minutes.

"Ethan, no!"

Ziva threw her elbow up and behind, as much a frantic bid to free herself as a deliberate intent to cause harm. The wild blow glanced off his ear, and he growled in irritation before jabbing a tight fist into the side of her neck.

Her vision instantly blackened, her body slackening in his grip as the stunning blow shocked her body's systems. Somewhere, a small voice in the sudden darkness reminded her that in the right circumstances, such a blow could kill. That same voice whispered she would not be so lucky as the man she'd once killed in an elevator.

Unsure of how far he took her when her senses began to return, her first attempt to reclaim her motor functions resulted in little more than a lurch of her upper body that unbalanced Werth. He might have thought she would try to get her feet under her, or expected a heel to his groin, but whatever the reason her deadened limbs became tangled in his and he stumbled.

They landed heavily, her dazed body trapped beneath him. She registered a furious curse and then a whirl of green and dusky blue sky as he flipped her onto her back in the grass. His knees straddled her hips, and his fist slammed into her cheekbone. His shadow blurred above her as she groaned, nauseous pain rising to her throat. But she did not scream.

He was furious, more so than she had ever seen him. She had defied him, insulted him publicly by halting the Game. And now, with the rebellion of the Herd and the attack the Residents, she had ruined him. Even if Jethro failed, if _they_ failed, and freed no one, Damon's authority was blown to hell.

He had failed to tame her, to break her, and by honoring her trade—her life for the Sanctuary, denying the Bloods their expected slaughter—he'd left the Black Blood Gang vulnerable to Jethro's retaliation. Damon would not Survive this.

And as her vision cleared, she saw the gleam in his eyes, and knew that he would not let her Survive it either.

The realization struck an instant before heavy hands clamped themselves around her throat. Her breath halted abruptly, a squeaking click of her voice box the only sound to escape before silence shrouded her. The screams of the Survivors were dulled by a new roaring in her ears, her vision pulsing weakly in time to her heartbeat. Damon pulsed with it, his darkened silhouette hard and imposing against the setting sun. It was not the face she'd hoped to gaze upon before she died, but at least she didn't have to see his eyes.

She could at least imagine Jethro was here.

Her body jerked, a spasm borne of survivalist instinct that just couldn't die. One hand swiped at Damon's face, but he was too far away. The other merely flopped on the grass. Cold, hard grass that was smooth to the touch. _Wait._

Her fingers clutched the foreign object, and a new pain flared minutely in her dimming awareness as sharp edges sliced her skin. Glass. A shard of glass so large it sat like a knife in her hand. It took barely a moment for it to register before her palm curled around it tightly.

Sunlight glanced off its reflection, cutting through the growing shadow of encroaching death as it sank into Damon's neck. A spray of blood arced through the air, thick and coppery on her tongue as she sucked in a gulp of air when his grip loosened on her throat. She let her hand fall as she withdrew her improvised blade, cutting the wound wider before plunging deeper.

Wide eyes stared back at her as her vision cleared, a choked gurgle trailing from above as blood coated his lips. His hand lifted to staunch the bleeding, but he knew as well as she that it do no good. The certainty of death was now his to swallow.

Another strangled cough escaped him, and his hand fell from his neck, this time to stroke the hair from her eyes. His fingers were slick with blood, coating her skin with a warm touch that was incongruous to every touch before. His gaze met hers for a tenuous moment, before lowering to her lips, his fingertips trailing over them in a featherlight caress.

As she watched his eyes glazed, losing their eagle-eyed focus as his body sank on top of her. His chin rested upon her chest, his nose brushing the skin of her neck. She felt his breaths until they were no more, but it was several heavy, interminable moments as she sensed his pulse slow, then fade. The voice in the back of her mind sounded again, proclaiming herself finally free, even as she lay in the macabre parody of a lover's embrace.

"ZIVA!"

The sharp shout cut through the din of sudden silence, and she reacted reflexively. Her hands pushed at Damon's dead weight, but the corpse didn't shift until Jethro knelt to help her, shoving Werth to the side before scooping her up and away from the puddle of muddied blood.

She let him move her, her mind struggling to catch up, to cut through the haze that filled her thoughts with cotton. She blinked, and then she was looking into blue eyes, dark with emotion as his hand cupped her cheek, tilting her chin up to look at him.

"I'm all right," she said, her voice raspy. Her throat hurt, she suddenly realized. But the pain faded as reality came back to her. Damon was dead, and Jethro was here. They were both alive.

Her arms wound themselves over his neck, pulling herself into his embrace. Her eyes burned as he held her, felt the relief flooding him as keenly as if it was her own. It _was_ her own.

"I'm sorry," she whispered huskily. "I'm so sorry…"

His only response was to squeeze her tighter. He would never blame her for doing what she did, for trying to save the Residents. But she knew in her heart she should never have done it. Should never have asked him to accept it. Dying together was better than Surviving alone.

He pulled back after a moment, looking her over as if to convince himself she really was okay. His hand brushed her cheek, and when he was content with her welfare he met her gaze as his thumb wiped the blood from her lips. Then his eyes closed, sighing to rest his head against hers.

She let his calm wash over her, and felt her heart rate slow to something resembling normal. She could breathe again, though her throat still ached, and her gut released its tense knot—a presence she hadn't noticed until it was no longer there.

He helped her to her feet, and together they stood for a moment, regaining their bearings. Inevitably, their gazes fell to Damon Werth, the empty body left on the blood-soaked ground. Devoid of life, he hardly seemed the monster who had ruined so many lives, but even then Ziva could not reconcile him to the dedicated Marine she had once met, another lifetime ago.

Wordlessly, her hands lifted, and shaking fingers unbuckled the collar around her neck. Its lock had been removed and left with the chain in her cell, undoubtedly still hanging from the bunk rail she'd been tethered to. She spared the collar barely a glance before tossing it away, letting it land on the back of her captor's body.

Jethro didn't comment beyond giving her hand a squeeze, but the newfound sense of freedom she felt wash over her was halted in its tracks when she remembered who else had been so desperately seeking freedom.

"_Ethan_."

The whisper passed her lips, and she spun on her heel to sprint back to the playing field. But she dropped mid-pivot, her right ankle giving way. She pitched to the right, and when Jethro caught her she barely gave him the chance to put her upright before trying again. She barely managed a few steps, her right foot nearly unresponsive.

A body ducked under her right arm, and a hand planted itself on her waist. "C'mon," Jethro murmured. Together they moved quickly, Jethro sensing her haste. She guided him, and within minutes they reached the field.

The second prong of the Residents' attack had come and gone, the battle having now pushed out into the surrounding streets as the Bloods tried to run. Jethro saw more Bloods than Survivors lying dead on the pitch, but it was a small comfort when they had so few to lose. And as Ziva led him to one fallen soul in particular, he knew that he felt the hollow victory just as keenly as he did.

"Ethan…" She pulled her arm from Gibbs' neck, letting herself fall to her knees beside her friend. Blood stained his shirt, even bubbling where it leaked from his wound. Fear spiked in her chest, and she immediately moved to put pressure on the laceration before looking up to Jethro. "Get Ducky!"

But Jethro's head shook _no._ "He's not here, Ziva."

Of course he wasn't. He was too precious to the entire Sanctuary, and he was so old now. But he could save Ethan, she knew it. And she knew that without him, Ethan didn't stand a chance. She knew it as surely as she knew that her applied pressure was doing nothing to stop the bleeding. A hand brushed her shoulder, clutching at her sleeve.

"You got 'im?"

Ethan's voice was thin, but his hope seemed so out of place that she almost laughed. Instead she grasped his hand, and let his fingers clutch at her. "Yes," she confirmed. His eyes lit up, and his lips almost turned up into a smile. "He's dead."

"So're the others," he reported, coughing out a mouthful of blood. "Most of 'em…"

She nodded, blinking back tears. "We're free, Ethan." She swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat. "You're coming home with us."

Bloodshot eyes lifted to where Jethro stood over them. "This the guy?"

"Gibbs," Jethro offered, by way of introduction.

A bloodied hand lifted over Ziva's head, and their hands clasped in a brief welcome. But then Ethan coughed again, and was left wheezing for breath against the pain. Ziva's grip tightened on his hand, silently urging him to stay with her. It was selfish, but she'd earned the right to be selfish about this—hadn't she?

"Ethan…"

"Don't." Ethan's counter was startlingly terse. "No platitudes." He blinked at her sluggishly. "We knew this was how it might end up."

They had. There'd been no misconceptions. But she didn't have to like it. He'd earned freedom just as well as she had. Maybe even more, because without him she would've gladly let herself die in the first Game she'd been thrown into. Or she would have lost herself completely in the role Damon had set for her.

Ethan looked to Jethro once more. "Take good care of her," he instructed, his voice failing again. He held Jethro's gaze until the older man nodded before looking back to Ziva. "You can live for the both of us."

"Ethan…"

But he was already gone. She'd expected to see his final, agonizing breaths, or a death spasm as his life left him. What truly came was so gentle, so peaceful she could hardly believe it happened. But she was the only one holding his hand now, his fingers lax in her grip. His wound was no longer frothy, the turbulence stilled in the wake of his death.

She didn't realize she was crying until she blinked and felt the burn of tears. She looked into Ethan's unseeing gaze for a long moment before reaching out to carefully close his eyes. A gentle hand settled on her shoulder, a steadying presence as her fury warred with loss.

"We're taking him with us," she declared, her voice thick.

She heard Jethro suck in a breath. "Ziva…"

"He's coming with us!" she snapped, knocking the hand from her shoulder before dashing the tears from her cheeks. "He's coming home! I don't care how long it takes us to bring his body to the Sanctuary. He's coming with us."

"…All right," came the soft acquiescence.

A moment passed, and Ziva's fury softened to heartbreak. "He wanted to see it," she whispered, barely a murmur. "What it stood for… It was enough for him to give everything he had…" She swallowed thickly. "He deserves to rest in peace."

She felt Jethro nod, though she didn't look up to see it. "He will."

Ziva continued to hold Ethan's hand, not moving to rise from her vigil beside him. After a moment, Jethro knelt beside her, wrapping one arm around her while his free hand settled over top hers, covering Ethan's limp fingers as well.

Together they sat, until even the distant sounds of continued battle faded, then turned to muted cheers as the Survivors realized their victory. Eventually, the moon came out, and torches were lit to light the field and the surrounding streets. It wasn't until Sergei's familiar footsteps approached them, pausing a reverent distance away to allow the trio their peace, that Jethro again broke the silence.

"Let's go home."


	40. The End

_A/N: This took longer than expected. I'm still not sure how I feel about it. I guess I'll just have to see how you all like it, eh? Oh, and even though the chapter title is "The End", this is not the final chapter. Just fyi. :D Enjoy!_

* * *

A tense shroud of silence hung over the Sanctuary, clinging to Residents like a fog. The absence of so many had gripped its collective heart in a vise, squeezing until it was all they could do to simply breathe. Days were passed performing the most essential of tasks, with nights spent silent around solemn fires. There were no games played, no music shared. Only the taut apprehension of what the morning might bring.

Within a day, Tony and Tim had begun to plan for the worst. There was no guarantee Gibbs and his war party would ever return, even if the Bloods stayed away. For all they knew, those left behind could wait years, hoping, only for the entire force to have been slaughtered in the first week. And if that happened, it was up to the Council to keep the Residents together, cohesive and alive.

And so they planned. They drew up contingencies for every scenario they could conceive of, and then some. Lists and game plans, and outlines to implement each with the least amount of jarring to the Residents. But even as they drowned themselves in their task, as much to avoid the wait as anything else, Abby withdrew. Planning for the worst asked it to happen, and she staunchly refused to contribute. They didn't ask twice. That left her with nothing to distract her but a lonely little girl.

Solemn for the first time in her life, Tali was stuck in the lonely purgatory of youth—not yet old enough to express herself, but wise enough to recognize the gloom for what it was. Abby saw her bright blue eyes take in the empty courtyards, and knew she heard the hidden sobs that escaped into the dark of the night. Without her father, her Big Bear, and her mother—too briefly a part of her life, but no less dear—the rambunctious child had disappeared, leaving only a morose shade in her place.

Together, they spent quiet hours in the Garden, or along the edge of the woods, seeking the solitude of the forest without daring to be out of sight from the others. More than once Abby soothed spontaneous tears, holding Tali tight while keeping her own grief carefully shrouded.

But somehow, together, they held themselves kept breathing long enough to see the Runner come sprinting into camp, exhausted to the point of collapse. They converged on him in time to hear of the Victory in the City. _The Bloods are dead and the Survivors return_, he got around heavy pants of breath. _And they return with more than they left with._

Abby refused to get her hopes up about what he might have meant, but then the Runner met her gaze, and delivered a beaming smile. He nodded once, deliberately, before he let himself be escorted to the nearest home.

Her heart lifted, but the apprehension of the others kept celebration at bay. There were small smiles of hope, but no grins. Sighs of relief, but no laughs. They would not allow themselves any greater reaction until their people came home. Because though the battle was won… some still lost. Not everyone would be coming back. Some had fallen.

But when the rumble of the first seven-ton drifted to them through the trees, they all came together like moths to a flame, milling stiffly as they anxiously waited. A mottled green snout crawled down the gravel road, and as one they released their collective breath. The foremost among them stepped towards the emerging vehicle, and as though the dam had been broken, bodies came flooding from the tree line. With excited shouts they surged towards their home, and the families they had left behind.

Abby gathered Tali into her arms and shouldered her way past hugging couples and tearful reunions, searching for her own homecoming warriors. A fist clenched her heart as she peered into each truck that passed, knowing Ziva must be riding. The trip would have been too arduous on foot. But the first yielded no Ziva, and no Gibbs— nor did the second or third. The fourth she skipped altogether, intuitively knowing that their intrepid leaders would have secured their proper place at the rear of the convoy. First to fight, last to leave. Last to come home.

The fifth and final vehicle squealed to a halt just as she came abreast of it, and Tali's arms tightened around Abby's neck, as though she too could feel that this was the right one. As they moved towards the rear hatch, there came the sound of gravel crunching beneath familiar feet, and then they rounded the bumper and there was Gibbs, shoulders heavy with exhaustion and relief, his back turned as he reached back into the truck bed to help Ziva scoot forward until her legs dangled twistedly over the edge.

Tali screamed something unintelligible—it might have been _mommy_ or _daddy_, or any combination therein—simultaneously deafening Abby and launching herself from the Goth's arms. Gibbs caught the flying girl, barely, and wordlessly passed her up to her mother. Thin arms accepted the gift of toddler without hesitation, returning Tali's fierce grip with a desperate squeeze of her own.

Abby watched, trying to focus on the beauty of the reunion playing out in front of her, and not on the new shadows that lurked in Ziva's tearful eyes. She tried not to see the not-quite-right set of her friend's nose, or the fresh bruises and lingering stains of blood on her hands. And she used Gibbs' warm, welcome hug to turn away from the unmistakable shape of a shrouded body riding atop the stack of supply crates that lined the back of the truck bed.

"It's over, Abs," he murmured in her ear, as though reading her mind.

She squeezed him tighter, burying her face in his shoulder. "You promise?"

His hand came up to stroke the back of her neck, the touch reassuring. "I promise."

And just like that, her fears were banished—if not her uneasiness at what they still faced. They all needed time to heal, Ziva most of all. It wouldn't be easy; nothing about this life was easy. But they were together, and that was what counted. Everything else would follow, as it always would.

Abby pulled away from Gibbs, though his hand continued to rest between her shoulder blades, as she wiped her eyes and turned to Ziva. Her own pale hand reached out to brush the scarred skin of Ziva's arm. To her surprise, and relief, the arm reached out and pulled her in, inviting her to join the embrace. Abby came willingly, and though the unforgiving metal of the truck's tailgate dug into her ribs, she pressed even closer. Her arms wrapped around mother and child in an ungainly reach, feeling the pieces of her heart click into their proper place at last.

"Ziva!" The shout was Tony's, but none of them reacted until he skidded to a stop at the rear bumper, Tim close on his heels. Abby imagined Tony's eyes misted over briefly before his stoicism reasserted itself, and that Tim's lower jaw worked soundlessly for a bit before Ziva reached for them too, turning their hug into a huddle. With Ziva on one side, and Gibbs on the other, and the team sandwiched between them, suddenly…

They were whole again.


	41. The Epilogue Pt 1

_A/N: Here is part one of the finale. Don't worry, it's not a cliffie like the real NCIS usually is. This is meant to be a conclusion- resolution, as it were- to the somewhat loose ends of the story thus far. I can't guarantee that it will answer everything, but it's got most everything, methinks. As always, enjoy!_

* * *

Staff Sergeant Jerry Michaels was no stranger to foreign environments. He'd led special ops missions to the pits of the jungle and to the highest ice mountains the Earth had to offer. But somehow, more than five years after the Incident, it was only now beginning to feel like the current state of things were the new "normal".

All it had taken was a matter of weeks the American way of life to descend into chaos. Michaels remembered watching footage of it on the television in his barracks room in Kuwait. The first to go had been the ATM machines. Then, the banks hadn't been able to make or receive electronic transfers. And, as always happened in times of crises, the government had locked its hard currency away, leaving the banks to dole out what little cash and bullion they had on hand.

Without the means to make honest purchases, the country had done what they were forced to do—riot, loot, vandal. The National Guard had tried to contain the situation, but the people had turned on them in their panic and fury, angry at the government that seemed to be doing nothing to help them, and it had sparked a widespread rebellion that swept the entire country. The cordons put into effect at the Rocky and Appalachian Mountains, as well as the Mississippi River, had been a hasty decision, and had done nothing to keep the violence from spreading. The only thing it did do was isolate sections of the country; no one found peace.

Then, at the height of the confusion, every electronic screen in the country had gone dead. There were no more news feeds being channeled to the rest of the world—Michaels only knew the truth of it by reading reports years after the fact. Palm-held devices once so ubiquitous were suddenly useless, and every person who'd relied on one for news and communication was now isolated.

By then, many were convinced it was a terrorist attack. Others believed the blackout was the onset of martial law. But it wasn't. The federal government had been rendered equally blind, and only a handful of officials had been able to escape the country before they'd closed the borders. Many were still unaccounted for, others confirmed dead.

No one knew how it happened, what caused it. Some claimed terrorism, some blamed an ill-prepared software update on core government systems. It didn't matter. By the time fingers stopped pointing and the leaders of the free world came together to design a relief campaign, thousands were dead or lost, succumbed to the madness of an abandoned populace.

And now, everything was different. Michaels had volunteered for the position to lead soldiers into the old United States, and they witnessed shells of gleaming cities and cracked interstates that were mere echoes of the American grandeur. They were the face of a reclamation campaign, but learned almost immediately that their relief efforts were only second to the need to resume their trained guerilla tactics. Within days they learned to not wear their uniforms, and soon they had taken on the grungy, bedraggled persona of those who'd Survived in the urban wilderness.

When Michaels made contact with the outside world every two weeks, each rendezvous became more and more jarring as he found himself and his men sliding into the survivalist mentality that made European comforts a far-off concept. A tiny voice whispered hateful comments after each communique, cursing the cushy seats the President sat on while the rest of his people struggled—killed, even—to survive. But then he remembered that he, too, had once been among the gifted citizens who had been abroad when the Incident hit.

As they moved south from the Canadian border, Michaels began to hear word of a band of Survivors near DC. Rumors of shadows, voices… leaders among the Survivors, who offered Sanctuary to all peaceful newcomers. Some spurned the idea, fearing blood—or was it _bloods_? He couldn't be sure. But more often than not they ran into people who were traveling South for the sole purpose of joining the reclusive group. People were coming from all over, but the real surprise came when Michaels made contact with DoD and informed them of his intent to track down the group in question.

There had been a brief pause, and then the voice he usually spoke to changed, turning to one of a timbre and an accent Michaels recognized from the Middle East. The stranger informed him of the deployment of a chopper to their location. It would ferry them to the closest known location of the group's position, their Sanctuary.

The chopper was unusual enough—they'd been told that they would be without support the moment they stepped onto American soil. But the dark bodied team that was already in the chopper when it landed was even more shocking. One was dark-eyed with a sharp chin; his accent implied he was Israeli, and the weapon he held in his hands confirmed it.

They didn't explain why they were there, besides as back-up; neither did they elaborate on the crates of electronic equipment lurking in the shadows of the helo's cargo netting. But the transport did its job—they were within the target zone in under sixteen hours. They found a clearing and Michaels' team disembarked, using a rope drop rather than landing. Until they established a perimeter, the chopper would not touch down.

When he'd landed, Michaels released his carabiner and looked to his second, Sergeant Lupo, and motioned for a wedge formation. His men obeyed instantly, bringing their weapons up to a ready position. In the back of his mind, Michaels knew that despite the rumors of peace in this region, his recent experiences with gangs and desperate Survivors suggested that the supposed peace had been hard won. To be anything less than warily alert would only ask for trouble to find them.

And sure enough, as soon as the weapons came up, he heard the faint snick of a weapon loading. Michael's lifted his fist, signaling an abrupt halt. His men froze, their rifles immediately coming to bear. Michaels glared into the tree line, searching for the threat he knew was there, but couldn't see.

"State your purpose."

The voice came from off to the side, abrupt and unexpected. Michaels and his unit turned briskly, every muzzle point directed towards the source of the address. And found a woman with a rifle stock at her shoulder, her line of fire unerringly focused between Michaels eyes. The Staff Sergeant felt the prickle of her accuracy, but didn't respond. Instead he observed her, and found that while the woman was slight, she was not frail. Tight muscle was packed beneath scarred skin, and the tattoo that adorned one side of her face was rivaling for attention against the scar that split the bridge of her nose and lifted one side of her mouth into a constant smirk. The tattoo may have been a gang marking, but the scar was nothing but gritty Survival.

"We don't want any trouble," Michaels voiced, not yet lowering his weapon.

The woman didn't blink. "I don't believe you."

As if on cue, a cacophony of cocking weapons filled the clearing. More bodies bled out of the treeline, revealing themselves to be more numerous than Michaels' own small cadre. The wariness in the sergeant's mind disappeared in a flash, only to be replaced by a tense readiness. The world might be different, but a threat was universal, no matter where it was. _This_ he knew.

Depending on their training—which their discipline suggested was a fair amount—his unit might be able to come out on top, despite the difference in numbers. But it wouldn't be without bloodshed. He would lose lives, and so would they. And in this god-forsaken country, losing even a few lives unnecessarily was tantamount to sin.

He took a deep breath, and lowered his weapon slowly. His men did not follow suit, and would not until he gave the word. But he would make the first move towards goodwill. "We heard that there was a peaceful group settled here. That they'd set up a safe haven. We came to talk to the people in charge."

Brown eyes regarded him sharply. They were judging him: as a threat, as a warrior, as a leader—as a man. She didn't relax for an instant, though, and her rifle remained firm against her shoulder. "What do you intend to speak about, with these leaders you seek?"

"Reconstruction. And recovery." Michaels saw no reason to withhold the information. "We're here on behalf of the President of the United States."

Thin, chapped lips curled into a mirthless smile. "The United States doesn't exist anymore," she informed him.

He winced. "Yeah. I've figured that out myself. But we'd still like to talk. What do you say we put our weapons away and discuss the matter over some food or something? My boys haven't had much to eat the last few days."

If he wasn't mistaken, he saw her dark eyes soften. But she didn't lower her weapon. "You look well enough fed to me."

Her voice was dry, an edge of sarcasm under her words. Michaels knew where she was coming from. Despite the muscles bunched under her skin, she had the look of the chronically underfed. All her people did, practically half-starved compared to his own men. Even the hulking mountain of a man at her right shoulder looked diminished.

_How long had they been out here?,_ he wondered. _How long had they been trying to eke an existence out of this unforgiving land, forsaken by all those who could have delivered aid?_

"Your bird stays in the air," she declared, her eyes hard once more. "It lands before we give the okay and you all die."

Michaels nodded. "Deal."

She released the cocking mechanism on her rifle, then lifted it to rest against her bony shoulder. "Then come."

* * *

The trek to their base of operations was a relatively short one. It was two miles through the trees, and Michaels took the opportunity to learn more about their grudging hosts. The woman was clearly the leader among them, and her people were surprisingly well trained for a ragtag bunch of Survivors. At one hand signal from the woman they formed a moving perimeter around Michaels' team, and their steps were agile and quiet on the forest floor, making Michaels' own bootsteps sound thunderous by comparison.

The woman herself was a walking contradiction. Her steps were nearly soundless, and yet she loped along with a noticeable limp. A limp like that… It meant something was messed up, and messed up good. He couldn't tell if it was her knee or her ankle that was busted, though.

His attempts to strike up a conversation went unheeded, and he resigned himself to walking in silence. A look to Lupo earned him a hapless shrug; for now, they could only wait to see what happened.

When they finally broke through the trees, Michaels barely managed to keep his whistle of awe to himself. What he'd figured was only a bunch of hungry Survivors huddled in a coalition of lean-tos was in fact a veritable town. It was clear to him that they had settled in an existing town, but they had since expanded, the outer edge of the tree line felled to create new houses that looked straight out of an episode of Little House on the Prairie.

The inhabitants were not the meager samplings of what they'd already run into, but were instead clean, vibrant—_healthy_. They called out greetings to the woman's returning party, and a few of them even ran to give their lovers hugs and kisses of welcome, like they were returning heroes of war. Considering what Michaels had seen in the months since he'd set foot on the East Coast, he realized, well… Maybe they were.

"Mama! Mama!" A small blur pelted towards them, and to Michaels' surprise the woman crouched down and swept the fast-moving body into her arms, rising to swing the kid around, which made the kid squeal with joy. Then the little girl planted a wet kiss on the woman's lips, before breaking into a beaming smile.

"Did you escape from Abby?" the woman asked, her tone light and not all that scolding. The girl giggled and nodded. "Rascal." The kid giggled again and snuggled her head against her mother's shoulder as the woman hitched her up higher to settle her against a bony hip.

Dark eyes met Michaels' from across the girl's resting head, and to his shock he found them crinkled with warmth, and surprisingly, humor. The scar that creased her features shifted, as thin lips curled into a smug and unapologetic smile. The unyielding force Michaels had met in the clearing disappeared, leaving him to face something so utterly domestic it left him speechless—and she knew it.

Lupo elbowed him, smirking. "Yeah, yeah," Michaels retorted, giving him a playful shove back. "She got me."

His men laughed, and just like that, the rest of her party relaxed, the unspoken threat dispelled into the unexpected gentility of good hospitality. The woman looked to her second, the mountain-man, one arm still wrapped around her daughter. "Get them settled," she instructed. "I'll brief the Voice."

* * *

The meeting with 'The Voice' was long, spent in somber conversation with a grey-haired man whom Michaels' recognized as former military. Marines, probably. The woman remained present—sans child—to stand at his right shoulder, her eyes sharp and hard as stone. Michaels correctly surmised that it had been no patrol leader who had faced him down in the clearing: she was the second in commanc here, like Lupo was for him.

And Michaels soon discovered why their opening volley of conversation was so unyielding: their concern, first and foremost, was the safety of the people in their town. They had dozens of families, many with new children, and Michaels was hard-pressed to convince them that he didn't mean them harm.

The second thing he had to prove was that he wasn't there to upset their way of life. "We've done very well creating a stable environment for ourselves and those who come under our protection," the Voice said.

"The last thing we want to do is put you or your people at risk," Michaels assured them. "But the President wants to put the U.S. back into some semblance of order—"

"The U.S.?" The Voice grinned mirthlessly. "There is no U.S. There hasn't been for years. We've made our own home." His eyes narrowed. "We have no intention of allowing ourselves to be bullied back under a government that left us to rot." The grey-haired man leaned forward. "And you can tell Mr. President that when you see him."

The man stood to leave, the talks clearly over—at least for now. But the woman put a hand on his arm, silently pausing him in his bitter storm out. Their heads leaned together, and they spoke so softly Michaels couldn't discern their conversation. But a moment later, he nodded and left, leaving her to turn back towards Michaels alone.

"Contact your men in the helo. They will meet our men in the clearing and be escorted here. Tell them to relinquish their weapons when ordered. They will be returned when you all leave."

Her words were clipped, and he knew that if the helo team refused, serious consequences would be met. He nodded. "I will."

"In the meantime," she continued, her voice softening. "You and your men are free to walk around. Our evening meal will be served in a few hours. I suggest you be there, if you are as hungry as you say." The corners of her eyes crinkled with mirth. Even with the twisting scar, her smile was charming. "Talk to some of our Residents, see what they have to say—learn what they lived through. Maybe then you'll understand our reluctance to hand over our freedom."

And with that, she too turned to leave. "Wait!" Michaels called out, making her pause. She turned back. "You know who we are," he said. "Can't we at least know your name?"

She regarded them for a long moment, then lifted her chin. "Some know me as the Shadow. You may call me Ziva."

Then she was gone. Michaels watched her departing back, then turned to Lupo. "Well, you heard her. Get the helo on the radio."


	42. The Epilogue Pt 2

_And here it is... the very last chapter of NCIS: Apocalypse. It's been a long journey, but we made it! This chapter is dedicated to all the lovely readers who left reviews, particularly those who continued to poke me until I posted again. Because without them, it very well could have taken me even longer to finish._

_Enjoy!  
_

* * *

Eli David was not a patient man. Nor was he a benevolent one, particularly when something occurred that was outside the realm of his control. It was why he had refused to speak to his daughter in the years since she had chosen to leave Israel, leave Mossad, leave _him_ to remain with the juvenile team of one Special Agent Gibbs. And it was why he had been in a state of constant rage since America had fallen to a computer virus.

As the months passed, then years, with the United Nations failing to do anything more than watch as fires burned in American cities and oceans of blood were spilled in the dark corners of the country, his rage grew to the point that he told his insertion team that they would return with his daughter, or not at all.

Now he sat waiting in front of his computer screen, his fingers tapping harshly on the smooth wood of his desk. The screen remained dark for several minutes, but when it flashed into life he was greeted not by his daughter, but by an empty chair set in a tactical tent. Somewhere, off in the background, the speakers transferred low voices, and then a body moved into the frame, making the feed crackle as the motion jarred the faltering signal.

His daughter sat delicately, in that way she did when she would rather be anywhere else. But she did sit, and she did look into the camera with a fierce gaze no one else had ever been able to master.

"Shalom, Papa."

"Ziva…" Her eyes—so like her mother's—were sharp and clear, but split by a roping scar that reached from hairline to chin. And a mark, foreign in its design, darkened her temple and framed her right eye. She'd been damaged; he could see it in the glint of her eyes, the angle of her chin. But her strength remained in the fire he found in her gaze.

"You're alive," he stated.

"I'd noticed," she drawled, ignoring his attempt to slip into Hebrew. The English was as insulting as her tone, and he silently cursed the influence of Leroy Jethro Gibbs. "I was touched when I heard you sent your goons after me."

"I was concerned for your safety—"

"So you send a tactical team five years after the world goes to hell." Her voice was biting. "Your concern is heartwarming."

Eli took a deep breath. "Come home, Ziva."

"I am home," came the surefire response. There was no hesitation, no second thought.

"Your place is here—"

"My place is with my family. With my husband," she taunted, her eyes glinting, "and with my daughter."

Eli's heart skipped a beat. No, her family was here, in Israel. In Mossad. She could not have started a family there, in the bowels of hell. She knew better—

"I Survived years of torment to keep them," she was saying, her voice tight with coiled anger. "I am not leaving them. Not for all the comforts you could offer. So don't waste your breath barking orders at me. You have nothing but words. My family is everything."

Her fingers motioned a kill signal across her throat, looking to someone offscreen. The video blinked out, but not before Eli heard the low timbre of another voice, one that had plagued him for years before America went dark. Gibbs. The man who had destroyed his son, polluted his daughter—stolen his family's legacy. Even now, he didn't even have the decency to die with the rest of his cursed country.

But the voice of Ziva's mother whispered in the back of his mind, accusing him that he had brought this upon himself.

* * *

"You just hung up on the Director of Mossad."

Ziva snorted at the awed technician, forcing herself to ignore how plump he looked. That was all she could see in the warriors who had sought them out. Not their well-trained muscles, not the fine quality of their gear, but the safe layer of emergency energy stored in the fat under their skin. It had been years since she or anyone else here had such reserves.

"I hung up on a man pretending to be a father," she countered icily. "I do not have time to listen to a man sitting safe and warm behind a desk an ocean away."

A warm hand on her shoulder announced Jethro's approach, and she leaned into him, welcoming his support. He'd tried to make her wait, see what else her father had to say… she hadn't listened. She knew he wouldn't hold it against her; he'd only played the devil's advocate for her sake. "He won't ever understand what happened here," he said softly, rubbing her shoulders as they left the tent together.

"I don't think any of us truly will," she returned. "But it doesn't matter anymore. We have enough to worry about now without agonizing over the past. We're safe, we have shelter, and we have the stability we need." That Tali needed.

Staff Sergeant Michaels was waiting for them, a respectful distance from the tent. Ziva liked Michaels. He'd been so sheepish when it turned out his helo ride had been sponsored by the Director of Israeli intelligence, and that she was the one they'd been sent for. Her gaze flitted towards a lonely placard near the tree line, bearing the name of the man whom the staff sergeant reminded her of. Ethan would have liked what they had here. And he would have laughed his head off if he'd heard her conversation with her father.

"We've spoken to our superiors at the Hague," Michaels reported. "They want to discuss the possibility of your helping us rout out the rest of the gangs up north."

Gibbs shook his head, his hand tightening on Ziva's shoulder. "They can discuss all they want," he responded. "But my men aren't mercenaries. I'm not going to let them die for the President's gain. Let him use the Army for that."

"That's pretty much what I told them you'd say," Michaels smirked as he started walking with them. "So they came up with a different idea. About how many people do you think you get through here?"

Ziva's brow arched. "As many as twenty or so a month, but most don't stay here." It was surprising how many people had become used to be vagrant. Even now, it unsettled many to remain in one place for too long. The threat of gang violence still hovered over many. But between the Sanctuary and their sister location three days' hike deeper into the mountains—a site now run by Tony and his Rosie—they did see a fair number of Survivors.

"Someone came up with the idea of starting a log of people who come through. And I know what you're thinking," Michaels headed off when Ziva felt Gibbs tense in protest, "you guys value your role as being independent and neutral. But I think you might be able to negotiate the idea to your advantage."

Ziva glanced at him. "How do you mean?"

"Well, you guys have a lot of people still looking for friends and family right? What if you guys asked anyone coming through who they've seen and what they've heard about different areas of the country?"

Jethro and Ziva shared a look. That was something they could start doing on their own, without the support of external governments. They already had a memorial wall of sorts, laden with pictures of the fallen and letters to those who might yet live.

"I mean, I think the President's already starting to realize that no one's really going to appreciate a whole bunch of soldiers coming to take everything back over. Right now he'd settle for the most basic of information."

Ziva felt Jethro give a silent scoff. He knew as well as she did that as far as any of them were concerned, the President longer had a country. No one cared why he didn't issue aid instead of martial law; all they knew was that when the fires died out, the President and the rest of the government were nowhere to be found.

"You could find out where they could send relief efforts, and where to send troops, depending on the reports from the area," Michaels continued. Then he shrugged. "But it's just an idea. You can do battle with the suits whatever way you like. I just follow orders." He winked at them. "But for the record: I like what you're doing here. It's a good thing, and from what I've seen so far… this country could do with a bit of good."

What could they say to that? The staff sergeant only had a vague sense of what they'd been facing for years. But he meant well enough, Ziva supposed. "You're right," she said. "We'll think about it."

"But in the meantime," Jethro hummed pleasantly in her ear, "there's someone who I'm sure has run Abby ragged already." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "She's gotten used to having you around all day."

Ziva grinned as they peeled away from Michaels, heading towards their home. It still stood in the center of the camp, grand in comparison to some of the newer homes they'd built. It had taken time to get used to it, but now she couldn't imagine residing anywhere else in the camp. It was her home, Jethro's home, and Tali's home… and they could afford to become attached to the place. That was greatest blessing of all. Ziva's nightmares were fresh enough that she remained acutely aware of how easily it could all disappear.

As they approached the house, Jethro loosed an ear-splitting whistle. Ziva elbowed him sharply for the lack of warning, but ultimately grinned when she heard the tell-tale patter of little feet pounding against hardwood. A second later the screen door slammed open with a bang, and Tali charged full-tilt towards her parents.

"Mama!" Ziva lunged forward just in time to catch the flying leap off the porch, and slung Tali upside down for a moment before righting the child who was roaring with delight laughter. "Mama! Is it time for the picnic?"

"You bet it is," Ziva answered happily. "Why don't you go find your Big Bear and we'll head over to the Garden, all right?"

"Okay!" Tali squirmed down and then dashed away, just as her Aunt Abby and Uncle Tim stepped out onto the porch. A small basket hung from the bend of Abby's elbow, and Tim had blanket draped over one arm.

"You two ready?" Jethro called.

Abby responded by bouncing down the stairs and hooking her free arm through Ziva's. "Yep!" Ziva rested her head against the taller woman's shoulder, inviting Abby to snuggle closer. "This has been too long in coming."

"Tell me about it," Tim chimed in. He clapped a hand on Jethro's shoulder in greeting. "And it's a good thing we're doing it now. With everything that's happening, I think things are going to be getting a whole lot busier around here."

Ziva took a deep breath. It had taken her a long time to get used to the relaxed nature of the Sanctuary, and now that she was used to it, she dreaded the chaos that seemed sure in coming. Jethro squeezed her hand reassuringly.

"We'll take it one step at a time," he said. "Nice and slow. We won't forget what's important."

"Family first," Abby supplied. Jethro nodded.

"Always."


End file.
